Losing Grip
by DaughterofAthena15
Summary: While working on a case, Sherlock discovers something about Molly that she never wanted getting out. Molly needs help. Will Sherlock be the one to help her? Possible Sherlolly.
1. Angry Tones and Empty Eyes

**All right guys, first Sherlock fanfic. Definitely not my first fanfic. Just me dropping my emotions off temporarily so I don't have to deal with them. I'll try to think of a chapter two and post it when I can or whenever I get the number of reviews that satisfies me. Well, here goes nothing.**

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Chapter 1

Today was definitely not her day. Molly had been having a bad week to begin with, so it didn't surprise her much when today just melded in with the stream of horribleness that ended up being her week. It didn't faze her much, to be completely honest; she was used to times like this. It did bug her though. She had been well for a while, so when this terrible streak hit her she was irritated. This only made it worse though. All these emotions for her had started to blend into one. One emotion she knew all too well. Numbness. Is that even an emotion? Can she call it that?

She looked at the corpse on the table and felt a sick and twisted jealousy towards it. She didn't exactly know why; she couldn't fathom a reason that was logical. All she knew was that part of her wanted to be the human lying on the examination table lifeless. She looked at the sheer lack of any color on the body. It was a Jane Doe. No name. No family to claim her. No identification. No anything. A neighbor found her lying dead on the floor of her kitchen when they noticed the door to her flat was ajar. Nobody really knew who she was. None of the neighbors had ever spoken to her; the owner of the building had a name on record for the flat but that lead ended up being a dead end.

The death appeared to be one of natural causes, though she was quite young for any of the normal deaths like a stroke or a heart attack. Molly had sent for a toxicology report not too long ago to see if the mystery woman had anything in her system that was out of the ordinary. She didn't expect to get that back for some time as this wasn't exactly a high priority case. Having nothing else to do with her, Molly moved the Jane Doe to a container and slid her in peacefully. Molly had nothing left to do until Jane Doe's toxicology report would come back, so she just sat down at the table putting her head in her hands.

She couldn't have been like that for more than ten minutes before she heard someone walk into her lab. She sighed heavily and hesitantly looked up at who had entered. As soon as she saw the curly black mess of curls sitting upon the intruders head she immediately put her head back in her hands, running her fingers through her mousy brown hair.

"Perfect, just what today needed," she said so quietly not even he heard her.

"I beg your pardon?" asked Sherlock, his eyebrows scrunching together a bit, cocking his head to the right ever so slightly.

"Nothing. What do you want?"

The twinge of annoyance and anger in her voice was enough to make Sherlock weary of approaching her. He took a careful, analytical look at her. Her hair was messier than it usually was and she had dark circles under her eyes, both clear indicators that she wasn't sleeping well if she was at all. Her sweater underneath her lab coat had some cat hairs on it, which was not unusual for her. However, her clothes looked a little sloppier than typical. He could account for this by her apparent tiredness, but he sensed there was something more than that. No, there was something about her that was completely off and so unlike Molly. He just couldn't put his finger on it yet.

"I need to look at the body that was brought here this morning. May I see it?" he asked.

"Fine."

Molly walked to the back of the room to wheel out the body from the cooler. She reached in and pulled out the infamous Jane Doe for Sherlock Holmes. She carefully removed the sheet from the body in order to let him inspect her – or whatever it is he actually does. She watched as it did his analysis, sending all the information into his Mind Palace. He then stood there for several moments looking befuddled. He was just as confused as the police, however, he was not as stupid or ignorant.

"Where's the toxicology report? What did you run it for?" he asked Molly.

"It hasn't come back yet. I ran it for the usual stuff until there was any clear reason to run it for more specific, abstract things."

"Well, it's going to come back with nothing."

"What makes you say that?"

"Think about it, Molly," Sherlock started in an almost furious tone. "This woman is no more than forty-five years old. A death of natural causes? Please! She had no identification, no nothing. This whole case is full of mysterious circumstances."

"That still doesn't tell me what I should be looking for!" she yelled out, beginning to get angry for some reason.

"Any chemical, any poison that would be out of the ordinary. You won't find arsenic or any of the typical poisons in her. If I were you I would try looking for bleach in her bloodstream."

"Bleach? Why on Earth-."

"Come on, Molly! Anyone with a sense of smell could tell that this woman had ingested it recently just by smelling her mouth. Jesus! I thought you were better than this."

"I have had it up to here with you," she gestured far above her head with her hand, her sleeve lifting slightly as she did so. "You do not get to come into my lab, examine my bodies, and then talk to me and treat me as such."

She looked at him with a fierceness in her eyes that Sherlock had never seen before. But that's what was strange to him. While her eyes were full of this fiery rage, they were also empty. Her heart rate was accelerated, and not because of her infatuation with him. No, it was something else entirely. However, despite his superb intelligence and observation skills, he still could not figure out what was wrong with Molly. He then thought back to just a second ago when her sleeve lifted not even an inch. There was something wrong with her arm, but he needed a final and definitive look in order to draw a proper conclusion. An idea sparked in his head that was just crazy enough to be believable and believable enough that it just might work.

"Sorry," he apologized.

Molly shook her head in response, not accepting the apology but dropping the subject, too tired to carry on the fight. She put the sheet back over the victim and pushed her back into the cooling containment system, her sleeve yet again moving up a fraction of an inch up her arm. This was enough for Sherlock to begin to worry somewhat for his colleague. As she closed Jane Doe's box, Sherlock grabbed her arm and pushed up the sleeve all the way.

"What's this?" he questioned, eying the red marks on her wrist and forearm.

"I do have a cat Sherlock. They aren't exactly gentle creatures."

"Liar," he said flatly, clearly not surprised that she had lied to him.

"Pardon?"

"You're lying. You're heart rate is faster than usual, you're desperately trying to look anywhere but at me or your arm, you're even beginning to sweat just a little bit. Your cat didn't do this to you," he said putting everything together. "You did."

"So what? I don't see what that matters."

"It does to me," he stated, taking her a tad bit by surprise.

"Why? It's not as if we're actually friends. We're colleagues."

He looked at her the same way he did when she told him that she didn't count. It's almost like that was happening again, except her words – and her actions, evidently – were far worse.

"You know, it's a terrible thing to do to yourself."

"Oh, that's rich coming from you! You're a fucking druggie."

"Was," he corrected. "I was a druggie. I haven't touched them in a while. The Magnussen case was the last time I did and that wasn't for recreation."

"Oh, you can't tell me you don't feel the need to have more."

"Well, yeah, but I don't give into them. I don't give into the craving of my vices, you shouldn't give into yours. And besides, yours put you a little closer to death, don't you think?"

"Well isn't that the point of mine!" she yelled angrily.

"Molly, I-."

"Get. Out."

"Molly-," he started, but never got to finish.

"GET OUT OF MY LAB!" she screamed in distress.

Sherlock left unnerved. This was not the Molly he knew. Why was Molly doing this to herself? He had no answers. No answers that he liked anyway. She was so on edge. He had never seen her like this before and for some reason didn't like it. He was worried far more than he usually would have been. He felt stupid for this as he had no answers and felt ridiculous for these feelings. He needed to get to the bottom of this. He needed the correct answers. Those were answers he could not deduce from the facts he had. All he knew now was that Molly Hooper was a cutter and wanted to kill herself.


	2. Loud Thoughts and Deafening Silence

**Sorry for the long wait, y'all. Life got in the way. I had wayyy to many trips planned in one small block of time and was unable to write anything during those trips. Some therapy stuff got in the way too and just.. Life, man, life. Anyways... I should definitely put a trigger warning for this chapter so TRIGGER WARNING. You have been warned. Read if you dare. **

**P.S. sorry if it sucks. I swear I tried my best. As always R&amp;R please and thank you. All reviews appreciated.**

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Chapter 2

Sherlock continued to be bothered by everything that had happened for the rest of the day. The cab ride back to 221B Baker Street was physically quiet, yes, but his mind was screaming and his Mind Palace suddenly cluttered. He had no knowledge on how to help someone with something like this. His Mind Palace was completely empty; he had no section dedicated to dealing with suicidal tendencies of other people; no sections dealing with self-harm. For once, he had no answers. No solutions. All he had was confusion and a massive headache from the clutter of his mind. There was only one thing he could think to do at this point. He pulled out his cell phone and composed a text message to his good friend, John Watson.

_Meet me at the flat as soon as possible. –SH_

When he got to Baker Street, he clobbered up the stairs and promptly ignored the fuss that Mrs. Hudson began. He didn't understand why she felt the need to speak with everyone who came through the door. God knows he didn't talk to the people that came through his door, let alone acknowledge them when they do. Nevertheless, he sulked over to the couch in the lounge and sprawled out on it. He stared up at the ceiling and reentered his Mind Palace to perhaps look deeper than he had before; to see if there was a sliver of information he could possibly have on the subject; anything that he could use to help Molly. He sorted through all the health information he had stored in his brain and came out empty handed. He never had to deal with any kind of illness before, mental or physical. There was nothing he could do for Molly; no medicine he could just give her; nothing he could possibly say would ever be enough to help her. Getting restless, he decided he should write John again.

_Sooner rather than later would be quite preferable. –SH_

John was the only one Sherlock knew would have any answers of any kind. Being a doctor, he would be at least somewhat knowledgeable on the subject and therefore some solutions. He didn't want to have to go to him, but what else could he do? Who else could he trust with this? There was no way he would go to someone else such as Detective Inspector Lestrade and there was no way in Hell he would ask advice from Mycroft. Anyone else would send her off somewhere or do something to make her feel attacked which was clearly not the path to take right now. As demonstrated back at Bart's, most things right now will make her feel in some way attacked and she erupted at the fact. She can't handle much right now, that much was clear.

He sighed and sat up straight on the couch. He buried his head in his hands, running them through his thick black curls. He didn't deal well with frustration. He got up and started nervously pacing the lounge. His long legs easily carried him the length of the room in three strides and he was already getting restless. What was taking John so long to get here? It's been easily forty-five minutes since he sent that first text to his best friend. Shouldn't the short fool be here by now?

Just as he was about to send John another message, he heard the door open and shut to 221B Baker Street. Mrs. Hudson quickly welcomed the person in, as usual, but the person didn't stay down there long to banter. They rapidly moved past her and made their way up the stairs towards Sherlock's flat. He immediately recognized the footsteps as John's and relaxed a little bit – as much as he could with what had been happening today and the subject matter at hand. The door to the flat was slightly ajar and John had no qualms about just walking in.

"What took you so long?" Sherlock asked.

"Some of us do have jobs, you know. Like, real jobs. And wives. Remember Mary?" John said sarcastically.

Sherlock sneered at his friend and glanced at the clock. 5:30 P.M. Molly would be getting off of work in half an hour. He had to get answers quickly, so there was no beating around the bush.

"John, quick refresher. What are the warning signs of suicide?"

"Excuse me?"

"You heard me. Just answer the question. Please."

No being used to Sherlock using polite words, John mustered up a quick summary of a few signs that he knew of. "Well, being generally withdrawn; tired; um, the most common is some form of self-harm. Why are you asking?"

"Research."

"Bullshit. What's the real reason?"

"Well, in all fairness, it technically is research. To see if I'm correct. And there's someone who I think may need help."

"Who?" John asked, worriedly.

"Don't worry about it. None of your business."

"None of my business? I'm a fucking doctor, you insufferable twit. This is exactly my business."

"John. Stay out of it. How would you help someone who is showing these warning signs?"

"It depends. That's why I need to know who has the problem," John said through gritted teeth, clearly getting upset and angry.

Sherlock sighed. He knew he was going to have to tell John if he was going to get some answers out of him, but at the same time he knew Molly would utterly despise him for sharing these details with John. For some reason, the thought of Molly hating him sickened him; he didn't want to think about that. It almost pained him. He wasn't used to feeling this sort of thing, especially towards a human being. So, now he had to choose. Either he doesn't tell John and he won't get the answers he needs, but he will keep the trust of his female associate or he tells him, losing part of Molly's trust, but he gets his answers and may save her life. While he hated the thought of her hating him, he knew telling John was the only way to help ensure she stayed alive long enough to hate him.

He looked John directly in the eyes and whispered, "Molly."

John looked astounded, as if that was the last person on this planet that he would suspect of showing any signs. It was as if he couldn't fathom her being depressed in the very least. True, he never really saw her much so he doesn't have a good gauge of how she normally acted, but he thought he knew her well enough to know whether or not she was suicidal. He was a doctor for God's sake! He should've been able to see this long ago. He sighed, trying to think of some way to help her, but he knew he didn't know her too well so he couldn't think of a plan that she would agree with.

"I guess we could… I don't know. Take her to a facility to help her?" he suggested.

"No, she would never go for that and I would never force her to do something she didn't want to do," Sherlock said sincerely. "I've had terrible vices before. I may not have been suicidal, but I know for me when I was using drugs avidly I was strongly against rehab."

"Big shocker there," John muttered, looking at his feet. He hated talking about Sherlock's drug habits, though this time it was a decent parallel. "I honestly don't know what we could do besides that. All I know is that if she is suicidal, we can't leave her alone. What makes you think she wants to kill herself in the first place?"

"I went to the morgue today to examine a body for a case and as she was putting the body back I saw cuts on her arm and her wrist. She was acting oddly out of character and seemed extremely fatigued." He glanced at the clock as saw that it was now 5:45. "I'm going to her flat," he said grabbing his coat from the back of the door.

"I'll come with you," John suggested.

"No! Molly can't know you know. Trust me, it is better that way. She's very ill-tempered right now. I will call you if I need assistance."

And with that, Sherlock was out the door and on his way to Molly's flat. He had been there once and remembered how to get there, so he decided he would walk there. He had around twenty to thirty minutes to get there before she did which was ample time for him. He wound his way through the streets of London, taking various shortcuts through alleys. In no time, he was making his way through the door and picking the lock to Molly's flat door. After a minute or two of arguing with the lock, he was finally in. He kept the lights off and made his way to the couch in her lounge after nearly tripping over her cat whose name he forgot. Terrence, Teddy? Didn't matter. He sat there patiently, hands together with his pointer fingers up towards his mouth, waiting for her.

Soon after, she fumbled her way through the door as well, flipping on a light switch. The layout of her flat was different than that of Sherlock's, so she didn't see him when she walked through the door. Her cat met her at the door when she came in and she greeted him properly. Sherlock, of course, overheard this interaction. Toby! That was the cat's name! She turned to go to her room when he cleared his throat, making his presence known. She nearly jumped out of her own skin. She turned around and saw him, the look in her eyes a mixture of anger, surprise, and fear – but mostly anger.

"What are you doing here?" she growled at him.

"Look, you need help. I don't see you going to someone else for help, so I came to help you."

"I'm not some damsel in distress that needs saving, Sherlock. I'm perfectly fine on my own," she stated dangerously calm. Her eyes told Sherlock everything as did her mannerisms and her overall state of being.

"No, you're not," he said once again grabbing her arm and pulling up the sleeve. He forced her to look at her arm and she then looked up at him as if pleading him to stop. "Molly, I know you don't want help but you need it."

"What could you possibly know about this – about me?"

"I was a drug addict, remember? Generally same concept."

"You think we're similar now, is that it?" She asked in an accusatory tone, stepping a little bit closer to him.

He raced through his brain trying to think of something to say that wouldn't further anger her, though he was sure if she were to resort to violence that he could subdue her. He didn't know what he could say, though. This was probably the only time in his life that he had actually thought about the effect his words could have on other people; this was the only time he worried about the consequence of his words. He knew he wasn't going to convince her that their dilemmas were similar. He would never be able to get her to calm down now either. She was worked up and fed up. She had had enough of this argument; enough of this day; enough of this life. He willed his mind to work faster and think of anything that he could say right now. The only thing his sociopathic mind could do was the one thing he did best: deceive her.

"Maybe you're right," he started, "maybe we're not similar. Our vices are different and God knows our motives are different. You're right. We're different; we're not similar."

"Fine. Okay. Thank you," she said, walking away.

Molly went into her bedroom to get out of her work clothes and put on something a little more comfortable. The sweater she wore was scratchy and irritated her more recent cuts. She took that off in favor of an oversized grey sweatshirt. She took off her slacks to put on a pair of black sweatpants. She took her hair out of the messy bun she had put it in after Sherlock's visit and lazily combed through it. She sighed as she looked at herself in the mirror inside her wardrobe. She didn't necessarily like what she saw. She was tired and had dark circles under her eyes; she hadn't slept very well in the longest time. Sometimes she doesn't sleep at all for a few days. She wanted to just smash the mirror into tiny bits and pieces. She could then use those glass shards to… No. She shook her head, hating herself for having those thoughts, but that didn't stop her actions. She took her fist and smashed it into the mirror.

She didn't feel the pain of the glass breaking into her hand. It didn't register in her mind. She knew that it should have hurt, but it didn't. She stood there, hand bloodied and battered. Sherlock busted through her bedroom door having heard the mirror break, fearing she had done something rash and stupid – which technically she had. He looked at her with confusion. He didn't draw the connection between her changing and her smashing the mirror. It didn't matter, though. He saw her hand and the blood dripping onto the floor.

"Molly, why on Earth-," Sherlock started, but didn't need to finish.

"It wouldn't make sense to you. It doesn't make sense to me. I just… I didn't like what I saw. I didn't like what I thought."

He nodded his head as if he understood because in a way he did. He did the same sort of things when he was in need of another hit while trying to get sober. Those were symptoms of his withdrawal, though. He didn't quite grasp why Molly was lashing out in these ways. He didn't know if he ever would. He didn't do well with people and didn't understand much of what they did or why they did it. Factor in the depression and he understands less than what he thought he did.

She walked past him on her way to the bathroom to bandage her right hand. She started running water in the sink to wash her hand with warm water. She winced as it ran over her wound and bit the inside of her lip to keep her from screaming out because of the pain. The irony of this wasn't lost on her. If anything, that irony was the reason she was living. For now. She then poured alcohol and hydrogen peroxide over her hand to get rid of any dirt or infection that may have been there. She then tried to wrap her hand in gauze, but wasn't having much luck with it as she was predominately right handed, so she was basically useless trying to do something – anything – with her left hand. She grunted in frustration and threw the gauze across the bathroom. It rolled towards the door and landed by Sherlock's feet. She didn't even notice his tall, brooding figure leaning against the door frame until now.

He looked at her with a confused yet bemused face. He wore a smirk that almost could have resembled his inner laughter at the scene. Not how they got to the scene – just the scene itself right now. Molly was actually quite adorable when she was frustrated. Or at least he thought so. He looked down at the gauze, debating whether he should pick it up and wrap her hand for her or not. Would she mind? Would she get mad at him for trying to simply take care of her? He, again, didn't like these thoughts of her anger directed towards him or her hating him. Then again, if the wound didn't get properly taken care of then it may get infected. He didn't want that either. He once more decided that her health was more important, so he picked up the gauze and walked towards her figure that was leaning against the vanity, face looking down towards the sink while her hands (her good one anyway) held a death grip on the edge of the vanity. He stood next to her and held out his hand, expecting her to give him her right hand, but that's not what happened. Instead, she looked up at him and just shook her head.

She walked back to her bedroom, her mousy hair sashaying across her back a little bit with each step. She sat down on her bed and picked up Toby, beginning to pet him mindlessly and staring into nowhere. Did she want this to happen? No. Did she wake up with the intent of smashing her fist into her wardrobe mirror? God no. Did she want to be this way? Definitely not. So, why should she have to be? There were many other times she had thought this. Like earlier today in the lab when she longed to be the cadaver on the table. Times when she would cut into her wrists and forearms with her fingernails in hopes of drawing blood. It was more difficult than cutting with a knife, but it was also easier to hide the scars and the act. This way, she could cut in public and write it off as scratching. The cuts and scars were smaller. And better yet she still got the rush that came with cutting, though to her it seemed a better rush since it took her longer to really cut deep and good.

She was so spaced out with these thoughts that she didn't even notice Sherlock come sit on the bed next to her; didn't even notice that he had wrapped up her hand for her. The thoughts were consuming her, infringing on her ability to notice what should have been obvious. She was mad at herself for letting this happen despite the fact that, logically, she wasn't at fault.

"You don't have to stay, you know," she told him, finally turning away from Toby and for once looking Sherlock in his eyes.

"I know. I want to," he affirmed.

She looked in his eyes, but they were as guarded as she was. And, for some reason, his answer bothered her to no end. Why would he want to? They weren't exactly close friends. She helped him from time to time and that's it. He's never shown this type of care towards any other person that she knew of. As for as she knew, he didn't care for people at all. So then why was he showing her this sort of care? He wouldn't know what to do. Then, it all came to her. He didn't know what to do or how to handle this, but someone he knows does.

"You told John, didn't you?" she asked surprisingly calmly.

"I did," he didn't bother trying to lie to her at this point. "I didn't know what else to do. I asked for advice on how to help you and he was the only one I knew capable of that."

"Then just tell me the truth; tell me the real reason you're here," she said. In return, she only got a blank stare from Sherlock. "It's okay. I know you're here because you feel obligated. Not because you want to be here."

Sherlock didn't know how to respond. She was right, but she was also so far from the truth. Yes, he was obligated, in a way, to be here with her. Only because she was his friend though. Not because he felt that she was some kind of chore for him. For some reason, he also wanted to be there with her. A true want to be with her. To protect her. And most of all to stop her. But, since he didn't know how to explain why he wanted to be there – it seemed quite irrational to him – he didn't know what to say. He hated to be ill spoken and that's exactly what he would be should he try to explain this to her. What other choice did he have, though? He didn't want her to have thoughts like this; he didn't want her to hate him more than she seemed to already.

"Molly, you couldn't be farther from the truth."

"Couldn't I?"

"No. Believe it or not, I actually care about you. I don't want you dead. In fact, that's the last thing I want you to be."

"Is it?" she asked, glaring into his pale blue orbs with her chocolate brown ones. "The only reason you would want me alive is because I'm the only one in the morgue who will work with you and let you do whatever you want down there. You don't want me alive; you just want what I give you."

He couldn't deny that. That was true; if she were to parish, nobody else would give him lab access like she did. But, that's not the only reason he wanted her alive. He just didn't know how to get her to see why he would want her alive. It's like she wanted to twist his words and his thoughts to get him to go along with her suicidal goal. He was aware of this though, so he knew that he would have to be more careful when speaking with her. It's not that she was pissed at him, it's that she wanted him to want her dead too. Like she needed someone's affirmation and consent. He would under no circumstances be the endorsement of Molly's suicide.

"Molly-," he began but was soon cut off by his companion.

"It's fine, really."

"Nothing about this is fine, Molly. What you've been doing to yourself is not fine. What you plan on doing to yourself is not fine. And the reason you think I'm here is definitely not fine."

"It may not be fine, but it's not wrong is it? The reason why I think you're here?" she asked. In return, she got nothing but sigh out of Mr. Holmes; a sigh that she returned with a tired look in her eyes. "You can get out now."

"Molly, I'm not leaving you alone."

"That's noble and all, Sherlock, but if you don't mind I'm going to go to bed. Feel free to crash on my sofa."

He nodded and exited her bedroom with no qualms. He didn't point out anything he probably should have. Like the fact that she hadn't eaten yet; or that she hadn't bathed yet; or even that she hadn't so much as taken off the little makeup she wears. She's not sure if she was bothered by that or not. She didn't know how to feel with the things Sherlock had said to her. Did he mean any of them? Should she believe him? He is a sociopath after all. He would say anything to get what he wants. He has approximately zero emotions. All things considered, she probably shouldn't trust what he's said. But there was something else about him tonight, hell today, which made her want to think otherwise. His face and his eyes said so much more than his words. He looked genuinely concerned for her well-being. His eyes were legitimately confused as to why she was the way she was. Like he couldn't fathom any Molly that wasn't the "normal" happy-go-lucky Molly that everyone knew. And right now, that's the only one everyone knows, besides Sherlock and John evidently.

Molly moved up on her bed and crawled underneath her covers, burying herself. She felt suffocated by everything; she needed it all to stop. She was fine when nobody knew about her issues. She still felt almost like herself when nobody knew. But now that people knew, people who were relatively close to her generally speaking, she didn't know who she was. They would now be able to tell when she was breaking, or damn near to it, and she wasn't sure if she liked that. She didn't like it when people knew her weaknesses. She was comfortable when she could just float through life. Sure, she didn't necessarily enjoy it, but it had to be better than constantly being watched by the people who know. Constantly feeling guilty for making people worry about you.

All these feelings came rushing towards her and hit her like a freight train. She tried her best to do nothing about it that was harmful. She would feel weird harming herself while Sherlock was just outside her door. Instead, she took slow breaths with her eyes closed and bit down on the inside of her lip to keep from crying out in just plain emotional agony. It killed her to not be able to do physical harm. She didn't even realize how much she depended on it until now, when she couldn't. Well, she could. She just didn't feel comfortable with it because Sherlock now had a physical presence in her immediate vicinity. She only ever cut when she was alone. Wouldn't it be weird if she did while someone was here? What if he saw something he shouldn't? If she did cut, she would have to leave her room to go to the bathroom and take care of what she had done and if she did that then he would no doubt sense her presence at the very least.

Why did she even care, though? Why should she care if Sherlock was there or not? It's not like he's never done anything in the form of self-harm before. He was a drug addict for God's sake! Compared to him, her coping mechanism seemed far more tamed. Who was he to tell her that what she was doing was wrong anyways? _Well, he has been clean for quite some time_ she argues with herself. Maybe he was right. Maybe she should stop. But what would take the place of her current indulgence? Nothing would ever make her feel as good as cutting did, which was the only reason she didn't want to listen to Sherlock or take his hypocritical advice.

All these musings in her head deafened her. They were too loud, too omnipresent. She couldn't think of anything that would quit these thoughts and they certainly weren't going to stop on their own. So, she ignored her thoughts on Sherlock being just outside her bedroom door. She ignored the uncomfortable feeling that accompanied her when she thought about harming herself while he was there. She grabbed a nail file out of bedside drawer and began filing her nails to a sharp point. From there she used her left index finger to dig into the skin of her right arm. After a few minutes, she managed to make the cut deep enough and painful enough for her liking. She started to make another one, but this time directly on the inside of her wrist. This time she would cut vertically rather than horizontally. This time she would cut directly with her vein. This time, she would hope to take her life. This time she would silence the thoughts in her head. This time everything would end.

She took a deep breath as she began her incisions and brutal attacks of her wrist. She tried to angle her nail so that it would take as few times as possible to break skin and cut deep enough to do damage. She prepared herself for a physical pain stronger than normal since it would be directly on a vain and tracing the vein. She took part of the blanket and shoved it in her mouth to prevent any possible noises from escaping too loudly. She traced with her nail feverously and continuously with determination she didn't even know she had. She muffled a small scream as she finally completely broke the skin of her wrist. The blood came out like a small little stream flowing slowly on a fall day with little wind. She continued up her arm as far as she could trace the small blue line. She then worked on the vein that she could see from her elbow up her bicep. She made sure to open the wounds as far as she could and as wide as she could to ensure maximum bleeding.

Thinking these cuts weren't going to be enough to kill her, fear slowly crept into her. She didn't want to dance on the edge of death this time. She wanted to fly over that edge with no parachute. She could only think of one place on her body that she could cut at the moment to help her achieve her goals. She reached her hand down to where her femoral vein was and set her nail atop it. She teased herself with it in a sense. She could do this right now – she finally had the strength to end it. To stop the thoughts. She had the means to do it and she was teetering on the edge of following through with her plan. She wasn't exactly sure why she was hesitating with it. Why couldn't she just dig into it and get it over with? Was it because she was secretly afraid to die? Not really. She didn't really care what happened after death. Was it Sherlock? What he said? No, he's a sociopath and didn't necessarily mean everything he said to her. He knew how to phrase things to get what he wanted. Then what? Frustrated with the thinking, she plunged her nail as hard and as far as she could into her skin, breaking the skin with first contact for once. This was the most physical pain she had ever been in while harming herself. She made sure to cut with the vein.

Once she felt she had done a good enough job – and once she felt extremely tired and fairly dizzy – she checked her wrist and her arm one last time making sure it was as open as it could be. When she was content with her handiwork, she wrapped herself in her blankets and sheets and waited for an unconscious sleep to overtake her. She was only awake for about five more minutes before she started slipping into a black abyss. The last thing she saw was the bedside clock. She had been arguing with herself and staring into nothingness for a few hours as the clock was telling her it was almost midnight. Her last coherent thought was that in the multiple hours she had been in her room, Sherlock hadn't checked on her or anything once. She was right. She didn't count.

Sherlock had been in Molly's lounge for quite some time, contemplating how to further handle this situation. He would have to use care which was something he seldom utilized. He had to think of the consequences of his words and actions. He had to do everything that he wasn't used to. One wrong word, one wrong action could lead to the death of a good friend. A good friend that he didn't want to die under any circumstance – be it by her hand or someone else's. He had been mulling over all these thoughts and thinking of how to better handle and assess the situation. However, all this thinking and Mind Palace searching had worn him out. For once, he had to sleep at least for a couple hours. This proved to be a deadly move.

He awoke at around four in the morning with a slight headache, but it wasn't anything out of the ordinary when he was thinking this hard and searching his Mind Palace so vigorously. He ignored it and got up. He could tell something was wrong as soon as he opened his eyes and he could hear a deafening silence. No noise of any kind coming from anywhere in the flat. Sure, it was four in the morning, but surely he should hear something, right? Shouldn't he at least hear Molly tossing or turning in bed? Hear the soft noise of her breathing as she slept? He didn't hear anything. He began to worry and rightfully so.

He made his way to her bedroom to check on her. As soon as he entered he could smell something foul. Something he recognized all too well: blood. He looked at her form and didn't see her breathing. He started to panic. He made his way over to her and began to see blood on her covers. He hurried at the sight and pulled back Molly's blankets and sheets. Sure enough, he saw what he feared most. He saw fresh cuts tracing the veins on her arm. He knew they were intentional and that this was the intended result. However, it didn't seem likely that these few cuts would cause her death on their own no matter how on point they were with her veins. Sherlock then noticed the blood near her leg. She was wearing her sweatpants, but the blood had soaked through and onto the sheets. The only way to know what happened for sure was to take the sweatpants off the girl. He did so meticulously and with care, seeing that she had cut her femoral veins. He checked for a pulse and found a very faint one. If he didn't do something now, she would be dead within a couple of hours.

He took his cell phone out of his pocket and dialed his best friend's phone number. Typically he would opt to text, but this was far too serious to risk the text going unread or ignored. John picked up on the second ring.

"Hello?" he answered disoriented.

"John, come to Molly's flat immediately and bring IV bags and an intricate first aid kit."

"What? Sherlock? What happened?" Watson asked, now more awake than he had ever sounded.

"It's Molly. Get here now," he said.

"I need to know a little more than that so I know what will be necessary to bring."

"She tried to kill herself, John," Sherlock said and hung up the phone, trusting his friend. He then waited for him in the lounge of Molly's apartment.

He couldn't believe this had happened, especially under his watch. He was here the whole bloody time! How did he not know? Was he seriously so entrapped in his thoughts last night to notice anything? He didn't know. Evidently he was if he didn't even notice someone committing suicide in the bedroom down the hall. All he knew was that Molly was on the verge of death and it was his fault. Unwittingly, he had given her the permission she wanted to kill herself. He just hoped John got here in time and could bring her back.


	3. Pretty Cuts and Ugly Truths

**As you guys have probably figured out, I'm only capable of updating about once a month. Sorry this is late, my computer had to get sent in for repairs and I just got it back. I sort of know where I'm going with this, buuuuut we'll see what actually happens. R&amp;R y'all! Suggestions are also appreciated. Love ya.**

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Chapter 3

Sherlock rushed to the door as soon as he heard the familiar footsteps of John along with a pair that he didn't know as well, but could only assume was Mary's. All of this thinking and Mind Palace searching was driving him crazy. If he had to sit with himself for another five minutes he would shoot through the wall, and surely that was the last thing that needed to happen right now. Everything in his mind was cluttered; he couldn't navigate through the Mind Palace without tripping. It frustrated him to no end. Sure, he was used to being stumped but never once had he stumbled in his Mind Palace. Never once had he wanted to escape his Mind Palace. Never once would he have preferred to be in the presence of others just to be able to not have to think. Come to think of it, never once had he ever preferred to be with people.

He opened the door for John and his wife, both of them carrying bags of medical supplies. From what Sherlock could see, his friends had thought of everything to bring. They wasted no time with pleasantries, much to Sherlock's surprise and satisfaction; they all headed towards Molly's bedroom. John and Mary were just as shocked as Sherlock had been when they saw Molly, if not more. Obviously John knew that Molly was in danger, but he hadn't thought it was this bad, not yet at least. Mary, however, had absolutely no clue what she was going to see when they left their home around four-thirty in the morning. She had no idea how bad anything was. She may be a nurse, but this was different to her for some reason. Probably the same reason it was difficult for John: because this was their friend. This was their Molly. She and Molly had gone out for drinks just last week.

From the doorway, you would have thought Molly to be dead. It wasn't until they got to her and could touch her that they felt the little heat her body was still throwing off and the barely there pulse her heart was managing with the blood loss. Mary quickly analyzed the situation and saw where Molly had lost the most blood and began to bandage it up. She wrapped a hefty amount of gauze around her leg to get the bleeding of her femoral vein to stop. In the meantime, John had busied himself bandaging Molly's wrists and arms. He never in his lifetime would have expected this amount of self-harm from anyone. He had seen some pretty terrible things in his time, but never were they this bad. He tried to treat this like he would any other person, but alas he was not like Sherlock. He could not separate work and emotions very well. He wanted nothing more than to know why Molly had done this – any of this – to herself. What sent her over the edge? What started it all? They were questions nobody could answer, a fact that everyone was a little annoyed by.

Once Molly was all bandaged up, all they could do was hook her up to an IV for blood. Since John and Mary didn't know what blood type Molly was they only brought with them one bag of O negative blood – the universal donor. They also didn't know how Molly had tried to kill herself, so they assumed that it was probably pills. Obviously, their assumption was wrong and they realized they _definitely_ didn't have enough blood to realistically help Molly. They exchanged an uneasy look which Sherlock noticed right away. It was a look that he certainly didn't want to see a doctor and a nurse exchanging, especially when it was about Molly.

"What's wrong?" Sherlock asked dangerously calm, in a voice so low-pitched you would have thought it came from a 400 pound man.

"We, uh," John stuttered, afraid of what Sherlock's reaction may be. "We didn't bring enough blood to be able to replenish what she's lost and actually help her. We were expecting an overdose, not a cut to death. We have one bag. We're going to need at least three more."

"Take mine," Sherlock said. Mary and John gave him odd looks, doubting that he and Molly had the same blood type since they didn't even know what blood type Molly was to begin with. "Don't worry. I'm O negative, I can give blood to her no matter what."

Sherlock pulled up his sleeve, exposing his veins for them to use. John saw the old puncture scars from when Sherlock used drugs. This made him feel moderately uncomfortable as he still got mad at Sherlock about that time in his life despite the fact that he hadn't used drugs recreationally for quite some time now. Or at least that's what he claimed. To John they all looked relatively new, but that could just be him overreacting due to his state of being – with Molly's suicide attempt and all.

Mary prepped Sherlock for the needle, also noticing his scars, though she was not nearly as discomforted as John. To her, that was just part of who Sherlock was, and if anyone knew about damaged and uncomfortable pasts, it was Mary. She began drawing the blood from Sherlock's arm. He didn't even so much as wince when Mary put the needle into his vein. Neither Mary nor Sherlock missed the pained expression in John's eyes, though he tried to hide it as best as he could.

Five filled blood bags later, Molly was hooked up to a steady blood supply and her vital signs seemed to be improving ever so slightly. It wasn't much, but all three of them were happy to take what they could get at the moment. None of them could stop thinking about how they could have prevented this… or worse, how they may have contributed to this. The same thought crossed everyone's mind as they stood in Molly's room: did I somehow lead her to this? What could I have done to stop her or at least help her? Outwardly, it appeared to have bothered Mary and John the most as they were medical professionals. The stress was evident in their furrowed brows and panicked eyes. However, inwardly, it affected Sherlock the most. He was here when it happened. He should have known what was going on. He never should have left Molly alone. He felt stupid and foolish, two things he rarely felt. He shouldn't have been thinking about his experience with this sort of thing from when he was trying to quit drugs. He should have been thinking about the exact situation at hand. He thought this would be an appropriate time to practice sympathy and empathy – two things he was utterly terrible at. Only now did he realize how wrong he was.

The moments of reflection and silence were soon over as Sherlock's mobile rang. It was his work colleague Greg Lestrade. The case. He totally forgot about the case with all the hectic things going on in front of him. This is exactly what he needed to be able to focus again. He may even be able to clear the clutter in his Mind Palace.

"I have to go. Surely you two can watch over Molly?" Sherlock asked John and Mary.

"I've got to work, Sherlock," Mary stated.

The two of them looked to John, praying that he would be able to stay with Molly. When he nodded his head, both Sherlock and Mary sighed in relief. Sherlock gave him a look as if to say thank you. He then left wordlessly, leaving John wondering how he could just take off on a case at a time like this. With their friend practically on her deathbed. He was also clueless as to how Sherlock was showing approximately zero emotion. Didn't this have any effect on him at all? He was the one that came to John in the first place for God's sake! He was the one that was initially concerned for Molly, yet here Sherlock was, showing no signs of distress during this terrible time.

John and Mary brought in chairs from the kitchen so they could sit with their beloved Molly. Slowly, they could see her breathing become deeper. Every few minutes either the nurse or the doctor would check the pathologist's blood pressure and found it to be rising-not by much and not very often, but rising nevertheless.

When eight o'clock rolled around, Mary had to leave for her shift at the hospital, but not before warning John that should Molly wake up, he is not to lecture her about what she has done or about anything really. She knew, though, despite her warning he was still very likely to lecture her or talk down to her in some way. Mary knew he wouldn't intend to sound mean, rude, and/or invasive, but to Molly it could very well sound that way. She just prayed that he wouldn't make things worse.

John continued to watch Molly, checking her pulse, her breathing, and her wounds every so often. Every time he did, he berated himself more and more. He should have seen this, right? He should have noticed her struggles before she decided she wanted to end it all. He should have noticed her strange behavior. He should have seen this coming. He should have been able to stop this. He was trained for this sort of thing. So why the fuck did he not notice anything sooner? Why the fuck didn't he do anything to help her? Try to talk to her more? Give her a friendly smile every now and then? Wasn't that his job? As a doctor, to see the signs and do something about it, but more importantly as a friend to be there for her when she needed someone.

He found himself soon dozing off in his chair. He knew he shouldn't fall asleep right now, but he couldn't help it. Unlike Sherlock, John needed to sleep. But it turned out his dreams weren't much better than reality. The scene in his mind was way too familiar; it was so vivid that it frightened him. It was Sherlock's "suicide" from a few years ago. Only this time it wasn't Sherlock; it was Molly. Only this time there was no phone call. Only this time there was no possibility of a talk-down. Only this time all he could do was watch passively. He couldn't move. He couldn't speak. He couldn't do anything.

He stood there at the bottom of St. Bart's looking at the auburn-haired woman. She stood atop the building looking as she always looked. A smile plastered on her petite face. She was wearing a jumper and slacks as usual. Nothing seemed to be amiss. Except for her eyes. Her eyes were quite possibly the most terrifying part about the scene lain in front of him. Her eyes weren't even truly eyes. They were hollow back holes. Red swirled about in them. That's when John truly realized what this actually meant. It was like his brain was trying to tell him something he already knew all along: just because people appear to be okay and normal on the outside doesn't mean they aren't severely struggling on the inside.

That didn't stop him from being upset with Molly, though. He was still angry. Still frustrated. Still confused. Just when he thought he couldn't possibly get more confused, words started appearing on Molly's body. It was as if she was being branded. The words first appeared on her arms in a light orange-red color. Then, he noticed a glowing coming from underneath her jumper. A bluish color. After thinking about it for a moment, he realized the colors reflected the intensity of which the fire burned. The only question was then what did each spot's intensity mean? Why were some of the spots branded hotter than others?

Before he had a chance to figure out the answers, he awoke with a jolt to the sound of coughing. Molly had started to come to. He looked at the clock and saw that it was about one in the afternoon. He heard Molly start to cough again as she began gasping for air. He quickly rushed into the kitchen and grabbed her a bottle of water to drink. She began opening her eyes and he slowly started to sit her upright in the bed, giving her the water bottle he had fetched. He was relieved that she had woken up, but not so much because he was glad that she was alive, which he completely was, as much because of the fact that she was on the last bag of blood they had for her.

She was still extremely pale compared to normal, but she did have much more color than she had when John had first arrived at her flat. Her hair was a complete and udder mess. Her breathing wasn't quite back to normal, the same goes for her blood pressure, but it was far from dead. Her eyes were paled from a chestnut brown to a champagne colored brown as if they were personifying the fadedness and lifelessness of Molly herself. Looking into them, he was reminded of his dream – if you could even call it a dream. She stared back blankly, absently. John wasn't even sure if she was actually looking at him. It seemed as though she was simply staring through him.

She was in fact looking at him, though, but not truly looking at him. Sure, he was in her field of vision but she was too busy trying to figure out what was going on to actually look at him. Was she finally dead? Was she in Hell? She knew for sure that if she was dead she certainly wasn't in Heaven. Heaven wouldn't look like her bedroom in her flat, and Heaven definitely didn't have John – not that she didn't like the guy, he just simply wasn't dead. No, her heaven would be reuniting with her family. Finally seeing her parents after so many years. Seeing her grandparents again. Everyone she had cared about who had died.

No, this was for worse than Heaven and close to, but not quite, Hell. This was reality. This was the real world. The world she tried so desperately to escape. That's when it hit her: she had failed. She was still alive despite her efforts to die. She thought she had finally done something right. But, behold, she was wrong. Here she was, breathing, and here John was, standing over her, watching her intently. That's also when she noticed the bag of blood attached to her, giving her a steady supply of blood. She silently cursed John for being a doctor and Sherlock's friend. Of course Sherlock called him. But the real question is why did Sherlock find her? Or more importantly: when?

She tried to speak, voice these questions, but all she managed to choke out was, "what?"

"It's okay, Molly," John tried to coax her. "Here. Drink some water."

She happily accepted the water bottle and began chugging it as if she had never had a sip of water in her life. Her throat felt so dry and hoarse that you would've thought that she had been walking through the desert for the past few years. She coughed some more, trying to clear her throat to talk to John. After a few minutes, she felt like she could finally speak comfortably and close to normal. She opened her mouth as if to say something, but John interrupted her.

"Why, Molly? Why'd you do it?"

"You're going to have to be quite a bit more specific," she said looking away, suddenly coy with him.

"Doesn't matter. Any of it. All of it. Anything. Just… open up for once. I think you owe us at least that much."

"I don't owe you anything. Any of you; Sherlock, you, Mary. None of you are owed anything. Just leave me be. Please."

"You don't deserve to be alone anymore. You threw that out the door when you did this," he said gesturing towards her in her broken and nearly-dead state. "Now please just tell me anything. Just one thing."

She sighed deeply, knowing he would never give up pestering her. Plus, better John than Sherlock, right? Sure it wasn't better than Mary, but she wasn't exactly an option at the moment. And how choosy could she be right now? The only thing she had to decide was what to tell him. She didn't want to talk about it, but she had to tell him something. Something that wasn't overly obvious, but also wouldn't prompt a conversation with him. Telling him why she did was out of the question because that would totally engage him in a conversation and some sort of doctor-y rant. Besides, she wasn't ready for telling anyone that much yet.

There wasn't much to tell him. After all, weren't the answers to most of the questions he could possibly have painstakingly obvious? All the typical questions of who, what, where, when, why, and how were so obvious that it would waste everyone's time to answer them, with the exception of why of course. Well, actually she could elaborate on when. When she decided this was the course she had to take. No, not last night when she realized she had an opportunity, but when she decided in general that this is what would have to happen.

She sighed and slowly began to let John into her head.

"I decided a long time ago, so really there was nothing you guys could have done had you known sooner. My mind was set. Granted, I didn't always intend for it to be last night, but I had always planned on doing it. It was easier than I expected, the execution."

"Well, if we had known sooner, it wouldn't have been."

"No, not easier like that. Sherlock's being here actually made me hesitate for a second. I meant that I thought I would have to battle myself a little more to actually do it, but I was ready for it. I am ready for it. I truly thought I would've had more to live for. Pretty foolish, huh?" she asked rhetorically, but John answered anyways.

"No," he sighed, "it's not. You do, Molly. You have so much to live for. You just don't see it yet, but you do. You have Toby for starters. What would happen to him when you've gone? Ever think of that? What about Mary? She would be devastated. So would I. Did you even bother to think of the consequences of your actions? And, Jesus, Molly, what about Sherlock?!"

"What about him! What would he possibly miss? Looking down on me? Saying horrible things to me? Being rude to me? Or will it simply be the lab access?" Molly asked daring him to answer.

Her eyes were so angry that John almost wanted to leave her be. Almost. He stared back at her, perhaps not with the intensity that she had, but some intensity nonetheless. The main difference was that he wasn't angry. He was mainly just confused as to why and how she could think so little of herself. How she could think that she hadn't anything to live for. How she couldn't see Sherlock's intentions and feelings for her. Sure, he wasn't great at showing emotion or communicating anything really, but if you could see past all of Sherlock's bullshit, then surely you could see his true feelings.

"I honestly don't know, Molly. It could be all of those things; it could be none of those things. But, one thing's for certain: he would miss you. I know you can't see it, but he does care for you. And if he doesn't matter much anymore, how about me, Mary, and Toby? You never did answer my question of what would happen to him."

"I have an acquaintance who would take him in."

"And my other questions?"

"To be completely honest, I would have to ask you a question first. And you have to tell the truth."

"Ask me anything."

"Let's say, this didn't go as well as it had. Let's say Sherlock stumbled in on me before I had decided to make that final cut and that he could easily have patched me up by myself. And, for pure amusement, let's say he kept you in the loop. Would you even be here right now?"

He struggled to answer the question. He wanted to say yes, with all of his heart he did, but if he were to be honest he knew he couldn't. He knew deep down that if he got that call, he would likely have gone on about his day as normal and perhaps stopped by at some point, but odds are he wouldn't be here right now with her. He thought they were friends, but he never dared to say they were close friends. Neither one of them knew much about the other, but clearly he didn't know anything about her. If he had, he would have seen this coming. He would have picked up on the signs. He would be here right now regardless of whether or not Sherlock called him for doctoral help.

He didn't want to tell her this, though. He didn't want to validate her actions. As a doctor he couldn't endorse this behavior, but as a friend he had an obligation to be honest with her. Now the question is, which comes first? Being a doctor or being a friend? He was a doctor long before becoming friends with Molly. Plus, wasn't her safety a little more important than their friendship? But, if he lies then he could lose her regardless of whether or not he puts her safety first. For once, he decided, he would put being a friend first. At least this way, she may start to trust him.

"No, I probably wouldn't."

"So then quit acting like you're my friend, and do us both the favor and quit acting like you're here because you care."

"You never answered my question. Again."

"Oh, I think I have."

He stood there for a moment trying to figure out how she had answered his question, though it hadn't seemed like she had. What was this supposed to mean? Granted, it probably did hurt or at least sting for her to hear that truth, but by the sounds of it she already knew what his answer was going to be. But then the actualization dawned on him: Molly didn't much care what happened to him and/or Mary because she didn't think she was cared about by them. She didn't care how her death would have affected them because she didn't think it would.

It hurt him, in a way, to realize and think that she thought so little of herself. How could she possibly think she meant nothing to anyone? How on God's green earth could she not know they cared? That Sherlock cared? That even one person cared? Was that really such a hard concept for her to grasp? Did she truly think it was impossible for someone – anyone – to love her? He had thought that she would have a least recognized Mary as a friend and have something to say on that matter, but she didn't appear to.

He looked at her more sincerely than he ever had, hoping that she would see the truth in his eyes since she didn't seem to be believing his words. Not that he blamed her or anything, it was just painful for him to see such hopelessness in her eyes. It was painful for him to see her go through this and it hurt him even more to think that she believed she had to go through this alone.

He pushed back a stray strand of hair from her face and gave her a smile. She didn't seem to notice though – it was as if he wasn't even there. She was just staring into nowhere. He knew he couldn't talk to her if she was going to be unresponsive. He kissed the top of her head and turned to go back to his chair when she unexpectedly asked him something.

"If Sherlock cared so much, where is he now?" she challenged.

"He got a call from Greg. Something about the case."

"Maybe I was wrong then. Maybe you are more of a friend than Sherlock," she said cryptically. John raised his eyebrows at her to ask for an explanation. "From what I've heard and seen, most friends would put a situation like this before work," she elaborated.

Outwardly, she smirked and laughed off the situation. Inwardly, however, was a completely different story. To her, the fact that Sherlock left just further proved that she didn't matter. That she didn't count. She knew this was selfish of her to think, but she couldn't help it. She knew she couldn't ask Sherlock to put her before a case – that simply wasn't who he was. Yet that's exactly what she was asking for in the back of her mind. She knew she was being unreasonable but she couldn't help it.

He came to her. Shouldn't he be here? He was the one trying to convince her she counted and that she shouldn't be doing what she was doing. So far he wasn't exactly doing a great job. How could he just get up and leave her after insisting that her actions were bad? Then again, he was a sociopath and she knew he couldn't house any real sympathy and compassion. So why did her mind betray and abuse her like this? Why did she keep thinking that he could? Why did she keep fooling herself into thinking that he cared?

Thinking all of this didn't help her either. She already felt worthless and shitty, and this just added on to it. She couldn't even do what she wanted to do to cease the thoughts – even if just for a moment – because John was there. Doing this with Sherlock in the living room was one thing, but doing it with John sitting in the chair by the window opposite her was another completely impossible thing.

Confusion the struck her. When had John moved to the chair and sat down? She had been spaced out with all of these overzealous thoughts that she hadn't even noticed – or seen for that matter. How long had it been? 10 minutes? 15? She didn't even know that her thoughts have been consuming her for a little over half an hour – going on 45 minutes. She had spent all of this time trying to answer questions that she couldn't some questions she well knew probably nobody could answer. However, there was still one question on her mind that she knew John could answer.

"Um, John?" she asked and he looked up at her. "How close was I? To dying, I mean?"

"Very. Gave us all a right good scare, you did. Lucky Sherlock found you when he did."

"Lucky? By whose definition?"

"Most people," he said sternly.

"Well then who's lucky? Because it sure as hell isn't me."

"Molly, yes you are. Why can't you see that? Why can't you see how this affects every-," he started raising his voice, but Molly interrupted him.

"You keep mentioning how this would and does affect everyone else, but how about how it affects me? Haven't you people ever stopped to think about that?"

John swallowed hard. He hadn't and God knows Sherlock hadn't. In situations like this, most people don't think about the one in danger. The only thing they think about is "fixing" a person who isn't broken in the first place. They only think about not having to worry about them anymore. They only worry about controlling that life.

He never meant to minimalize her feelings or anything of that nature. He wanted her to be happy – just not dead. Was that really so bad and wrong of him? Clearly Molly was ill and needed help. He was just trying to give her that help and offer her solace, but she wouldn't accept. That seemed to be the problem. Somehow he, Sherlock, and/or Mary had to get Molly to accept their help. They needed her to want to get better – to want to live again.

He looked back at Molly, who was eyeing her IV and the door. He also noticed that she seemed to be taking her pulse. When finished, she shrugged and moved her hand towards the needles on her opposite hand and arm. She began to slowly pull them out.

"Molly, no! What are you doing?"

"What? I have to pee. My pulse is fine. I'll survive going to the bathroom."

She finished pulling out the needles, disconnecting herself from the blood and nutrient bags. She crawled out of her bed slowly and meticulously, making her pain noticeable to anyone that could see her face – her pinched up face, her scrunched eyebrows, the barely audible whimper that escaped her lips.

"Starting to regret cutting that vein now?" John asked half serious, half joking, going to help her.

"In all fairness, it was meant to kill me," Molly said laughing a little bit.

John helped her get to the bathroom, but she ceased to be compliant with his aid once they reached the bathroom door.

"I can pee by myself, John," Molly said. He gave her a look, uneasy about leaving her alone. "Don't worry. I promise I won't do anything stupid and self-destructive. Swear on my parents' graves," she said holding up her right hand.

"Don't say that," he warned, "terrible things could happen."

"What's going to happen? They're already dead."

With that, she closed the door to the bathroom and left John standing there dumbfounded. There was nothing for him to say, really. Out of everything Molly could have possibly told him about her personal life, that's the bombshell she decides to drop? He expected her to start off with something small, something light. _But what if this is something small and light in her life,_ he thought. That thought made him shiver a bit. Granted, it was a chilling realization, but on the other hand, he is the one who asked Molly to open up – to let him or one of the others in. who was he to get upset that she did exactly that?

He snapped out of his thoughts when he heard the toilet flush. The running water of the sink followed soon after. She opened the door and found herself standing face to face with her acting physician. When she went to move past him, he didn't budge. She mustered up a questioning and almost concerned face.

"How long have they been dead?" he asked.

"My parents? Since I was eighteen I think. Give or take."

"Is that why…?"

"Not entirely, but I suppose it is part of it."

As satisfied with that answer as he was going to get, he moved to Molly's side to help her get back to her bed. Once she sat down on the bed, she went directly for the first aid supplies that John and Mary had brought with them. She and John took off the gauze and other bandages she had on in order to replace them. She was still bleeding a bit in some places, but nowhere near enough to kill her anymore.

The antibiotics that were put on her wounds stung her greatly, so much so that she jumped a tad bit even though she knew it was coming and that it would hurt.

"Hey, John?" Molly broke the silence.

"Yeah?" he said looking up from renewing her bandaging.

"Most people would have just taken me to a hospital. Why didn't you?"

He was silent for several moments, finishing wrapping her up before getting up and returning to his chair. He looked into the brown eyes of his companion that were surrounded with a tired expression. The bags under her eyes only made her look sicker.

"Ask Sherlock." He finally responded, which silenced Molly. For the rest of the day.


	4. Hellish Dreams and Heavenly Confessions

**Okay, this is a lot shorter and definitely not what I really wanted to upload as chapter four, but alas that's what you're getting. Life has been very hectic lately and I would take a few more days to upload the chapter I really want, but I'm leaving for Florida for a week in a few hours and I promised an update. Hopefully you guys still enjoy the chapter.**

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Chapter 4

Molly struggled with herself all day, but not in the typical way. She didn't quite feel jealous of a cadaver on her table waiting to be examined (preferably one that didn't have an identity – one she could relate to). No, she felt more like she could pull her hair out from all the thinking, all the arguing with herself. John's suggestion left her with some serious thinking to do. Thinking that she didn't necessarily want to do. Hadn't Sherlock plagued her thoughts enough for one lifetime? Now she had to figure out what Sherlock had to do with her being in her home, treated by John and Mary rather than being in a hospital being treated by whomever would have been assigned to her. She felt fairly certain in assessing that it wasn't because John and Mary would have rather treated her than anyone else.

Sherlock hadn't even said too much to her when he was here with her, let alone enough to clue her in as to why they didn't just cart her off to a facility or the hospital. Anyone else on the planet would have done that: John would have, Mary would have. But why didn't Sherlock? She remembered he said something about the two of them being similar, and she promptly denied the motion. It seemed to be logical and reasonable at the time, but now she was starting to think there was more behind his words than she had originally thought. He used drugs recreationally, when he got bored. She indulged in her activity solely to pass time until she died. She didn't necessarily have to be bored to do it; she could just feel a certain inclination to do something to herself. It made her feel right. Well, not right… just better. It reminded her she could feel. She doubted that's why Sherlock dabbled in drugs. She also had her suspicions that he used the drugs to die. His intentions were different. Right?

A sudden motion on her bed pulled her from her thoughts of Sherlock and the intentions of those around her. She turned over onto her side to see that Toby had found his way back up to the bed and happily settled next to her, perfectly content in his own little cat world. She lay there simply staring at him and his pale grey Tabby coat, fantasizing about what it would be like if she were to be happy in her own life. To be worry free and just go with the flow of things, take what life gives her with a smile and at least a little dignity. She tried to imagine what it would be like to not have the scars that she does. Emotional, physical, and otherwise. Perhaps if she had a different vice, it would be easier to escape the demons that cutting left upon her. _Maybe if I change my vice, people would stop noticing when I use it or at least it won't be as obvious if I slip up,_ she thought.

She started to curl up around Toby and he snuggled into her as she began to mindlessly pet the cat as she thought more about changing her vices. She knew she didn't want to give up horrible things completely; they acted as almost a safety net for her. When everything else fell apart, at least she had cutting. But now with her "friends" around her and their knowledge of it, she didn't even have that. When one vice ceases to be possible pick up another, right? But which vice to pick? Drinking? Smoking? Heroin? Cocaine? She thought about it endlessly until she drifted off to sleep.

The first thing she heard was a metallic _clink_ as she took her first step. She cautiously took another step forward, once again hearing a _clink_ as she did so. She thought for a moment that perhaps she was wearing heels, but suddenly realized she was barefoot. Looking around the cold, damp room, she could barely see anything; it was too poorly lit to see anything of importance. She could see about half a foot in front of her, but kept walking anyway. She took a few more steps and found herself standing in front of a coffin. Out of morbid curiosity, she opened the oak resting place to find a bed of knives underneath the lid. When she looked back up from the coffin, she found herself looking at herself. Not a reflection of herself, but another materialization of herself. An exact replica of herself. She looked around her, confused, only to find herself surrounded by herself. They started inching closer to her.

"Go on, Molly," They said. "You dug your own grave, now lie in it."

She looked at them even more baffled now than she was before. What did they mean by that? She'll admit she did kind of dig her own grave, but it's not like she used knives to do the deed. She had a few times, but it didn't feel personal enough. It didn't feel like she was truly doing it. Why was her grave, then, filled with knives? Because of how she started her habit with various blades? Because lying in a coffin filled with knives would more easily cut into all the places she already had?

The other Mollys were quickly moving in on her chanting, "No one to save you from yourself," over and over until she found it escaping her own lips as well. When they were all so close to her she felt she could no longer breathe, the only place she could go was the coffin. By the looks of it, she could only either go in voluntarily or she would be put in by the others. No matter what, she ended up in that grave and she knew it. The only debate there was was whether or not she would go down without a fight. Fighting, though, seemed pointless since no matter what she would end up with the metal blades that taunted her ruthlessly. So, she saved everyone else the time and energy of forcing her in by lying in it herself.

She expected the pain of the knives and blades to be more forceful, piercing through every inch of her skin. Instead, she felt nothing. Literally nothing. She didn't even feel the bottom of her coffin. She was floating, suspended in space. Only, she wasn't exactly floating; she was falling. She didn't know how far she had fallen or for how long she had been falling for. Hell, she didn't even know if she would ever stop falling. There was no bottom to be seen and there wasn't even an opening at the top anymore. She assumed that this would ultimately lead to her demise, which she accepted with grace, only to be once again reacquainted with the ground.

Miraculously, she survived. It's not that the ground was cushioned or that something broke the fall. No, it was nothing like that; she hit concrete, she just didn't die. She remained on the floor for a few more seconds with her eyes shut as if expecting pain, but again no pain ensued.

When she opened her eyes, she expected a dark room like the one she had been in before, but this room was brightly lit. Well, not brightly lit by most people's standards, just brightly lit in comparison to the prior place. She looked around as if she expected to recognize where she was, but she didn't. There wasn't really anything where she was, and she didn't dare to call it a room because it wasn't. It was just a space. There was no particular source that the light was coming from either.

She quit searching for perhaps thirty seconds to inspect her body from the fall, which somehow remained intact and unharmed. In those thirty seconds that her eyes were averted from her surroundings, things started to appear. By the time she looked up from her body and began paying attention to the room again, she noticed what had appeared. Only, they weren't what's. They were who's. Standing before her were the people that she had been so desperately trying to push away in real life: Sherlock, Mary, and John.

They stepped closer to her, but not in a threatening way like the Mollys of the other room had. They approached cautiously as if approaching a murder victim or a wounded animal. Sherlock was the first to offer her a hand to help her up. She looked at it, unsure if she should take it or not. After all, there was nothing prohibiting her from getting up herself. On the other hand, she should probably take advantage of the shred of kindness Sherlock was uncharacteristically offering. The only problem was that when she took his hand, he recoiled as if he was hurt simply by her touch. The same thing happened when John and Mary offered their help.

What was wrong with her? She looked at her hands to make sure they hadn't turned into something weird like thorns or something, but they looked completely normal. Just five-fingered, snow white hands. She sighed, defeated. She attempted to run her fingers through her hair, only to find out that her touch hurt her as well. Then she figured out why the others flinched at her touch. It wasn't that it was a sharp, blade-esque feeling. It's that it was a burning sensation that felt hot enough to burn through anything.

She looked back up at her friends and they did nothing. They didn't move, they didn't speak, and she could have sworn they weren't even breathing. She got up on her own and attempted to take just one small step towards them. The good news was that she moved. The bad news was that Sherlock, John, and Mary did as well. As soon as she took one step towards them, they took one step away from her. It hurt her, but she understood why they did it. They didn't want to get hurt; neither did she, though.

She scuttled backwards, but they followed her. It was as if they didn't want to be around her in fear that she would hurt them, yet they still wanted her. It was confusing to say the least for the brown-haired beauty. She looked at her hands for a couple of seconds; not too long by her standards, but apparently long enough for looks of concern to cross the trio's faces. It almost gave Molly a sense of hopefulness, but that soon faded when she realized there was nothing for her to do. She couldn't touch them, they couldn't touch her, she couldn't exactly flee because there was nowhere to go, but she had to get out. She couldn't stay in here one second longer and she could only see one solution.

She took her hand and pressed it against her chest, over her heart. The pain was terrible. It was as if she was being lit on fire and sacrificed to Satan. She couldn't help but let the loud, blood-curdling scream escape her lips. The three others tried to take a step closer to her for whatever reason, but she managed to scream out, "Don't!" as the pain intensified and eventually brought her to what she assumed was her ultimate demise.

She awoke with a start, screaming bloody murder, all of which easily caught John's attention. He rushed to her side, checking to see if she was all right. He checked her pulse and all of her vitals. When he was done, she rolled on her side away from him. She couldn't deal with him right now or anyone really. With all that was going on inside her head, she didn't want to risk something such as confusing her nightmares with reality. It's happened to her before with results that weren't of the best variety. She already felt like a monster, thanks to her life and her nightmares, and she didn't want to actually become one. To actually hurt someone else.

She felt something warm and wet slide down her face; she was crying and she hadn't even realized it. She turned her face into a pillow and shut her eyes tightly as if that would stop the tears. She tried to keep her screams internal, but a small one escaped. Her shakes became more evident, and her breathing picked up. She felt ridiculous for crying. She didn't have much of a reason to be doing so. She felt John sit down on the bed and try to comfort her, but when he went to touch her she practically jumped out of the bed.

"Please. Don't. I don't want to hurt you," Molly choked out in between sobs.

"Molly, that's ridiculous. You're like 100 pounds; I doubt you can harm me," John reassured her.

He went towards her again, not afraid of her and rightfully so. He was much larger, much stronger than her. He had no real reason to think she could hurt him physically. He reached out for her once more, only to be slapped away. She didn't exactly mean to hit him per se, but if that's what she had to do, then she would do just that. He only made it worse by trying to hug her. She kicked at him, scratched at him. He simply grabbed at one of her arms and twisted it behind her back to detain her. He grabbed the other one as well, but that didn't impede her from trying to win this fight that only she thought they were having despite her intensified sobs.

John could her the agony in her as the sobs came out. It pained him to hear his friend in such emotional torment. He didn't know what brought her to this point or even how long she's been in this state, but he was determined to figure it out. She, however, did not wish to partake in letting him into her world, but after the bombshell at the bathroom, he was also a tad scared of what else would come out; he didn't know how he could help her realistically with much of what she could say to him. He wasn't qualified for this as a doctor. _But, I'm trying to be here as a friend, not a doctor,_ he reminded himself. All he had to do was be here, listen. That's what friends do in these types of situations, and it was painfully evident that she felt she didn't have that. No matter what she said, he was fixed to stay by her when he could. He was going to prove to her she had at least one friend, goddammit!

Eventually, she calmed down enough to stop trying to fight him, but not enough to stop her incessant cries. Much to his surprise when he let go of her arms she didn't run, she turned to him, burying her head in his chest crying into him. Not that he was complaining, he was rather happy that she was letting her pain out in any form that didn't involve putting herself in danger. He held her closer and stroked her hair in a lame attempt to get her calmer. Her body shook and seemed abnormally small, even next to his short stature. Maybe it was because he wasn't used to such proximity to her. Or maybe it was just her emotions being so physically ailing to her. Whatever it was only made him want to protect the small, fragile flower that she was even more than he already did.

"Come, Molly. Let's get you back to the bed," he told her as she began to cease crying. He got her back into the bed where she proceeded to turn away from John and bury herself in the blankets, head face down on her pillow. "You should eat something, Molly. I'll make you something," he offered.

"I'm not hungry, thanks."

"It's not healthy to skip meals and such."

"Yes, because clearly I care about that," she said as she laughed. "Look at this situation, John. The only reason you're here is because I tried to kill myself. So, right now you're only kidding yourself saying those things like that. The only question is why? Why are you even bothering? Why are you concerned?"

He looked onto her eyes that were suddenly very harsh, questioning, and unrelenting. She looked as if she was trying to tear into his soul and drag the answer out of him. He supposed it was his turn to come clean, just a little. He wasn't one to lie in the first place. He sighed and sat on the bed next to Molly in preparation.

"You remind me a little too much of my sister, Harry. She is an alcoholic, destroying her life in every fashion of the term. She threw away her life and there wasn't anything I could do about it. I'm not going to watch you do the same. I know you don't think of us as friends or maybe even as acquaintances, but whether you like it or not you are family, Molly Hooper."

"And whether you like it or not you are foolish, John Watson. For once, Sherlock was right in regards to sentiment and emotion. It is a weakness and it is utterly idiotic. Back out now while you can before you're brought nothing but pain," she warned.

John opened his mouth to argue with her further, but thought better of it. He didn't want to run the chance of making her feel worse. God only knows what else she would do to herself. There didn't seem to be too many options left as she's already indulged in some of the deadlier ones and definitely the deadliest of all. What was left for her to do to herself? He knew the answers, but still didn't want to see her spiral into other indulgences she may decide on.

He got up off the bed, noticing that she had drifted off to sleep once again, and moved over to the chair once more. He sat there looking at his emotionally and physically drained female companion. She looked peaceful when she was sleeping, like she could finally not have to face her reality and/or whatever it was that made her the way she was. However, he knew that was unlikely to be the case given her outburst after waking up just a short while beforehand. But still, there was something about her sleeping form that made John think that maybe, just maybe, her brain allowed her freedom from herself occasionally. The way she breathed seemed to be normal, as if she were just another person, not haunted by demons. As if she was happy. As if she was herself.

But that's the thing: he knew that even when she was awake, even when she was depressed and unhappy, even when she was leaving permanent marks on herself she was being herself. That's who she was, deep down. He knew in his brain that all the smiles in the lab, all the friendly conversations, all the pleasantries during holidays and/or at parties were all in one way or another lies. He knew she was just masking this side of her. The side that she wished nobody had discovered. He knew this in his brain, yet his heart was trying to betray him. His heart wanted that Molly back. The one who smiled all the time, the one whose face would light up when Sherlock walked into a room, the one who would laugh and make polite conversation with anyone that needed it or desired it. The Molly that he saw when looking at her sleeping being.

He wasn't sure what made him angrier. The fact that the Molly he thought he knew was a lie or the fact that Molly actually felt this way about herself and felt the need to do these self-destructive things. It was irrational to feel this way, but it's how he felt nonetheless. There wasn't something he could just say to her to make her feel better and have everything go back to normal. There wasn't anything he could really do. It was going to be a long and tedious process to get things back to the way they all knew, to get her to be better and that's the part that frustrated him the most. While he was far better at being patient than Sherlock was, he was by no means a patient man.

All he really wanted right now was somewhere to start the process, but with Molly being so closed off he hadn't a clue. He had one piece of information to work with and he didn't know what to do with it. He knew her parents had died some time ago and that could contribute to the way she feels now, the way she views herself. Without her cooperation, though, there wasn't much he could do with this. There was definitely more to the story, that much he was sure of.

He leaned back, covering his face with is hands. He let out a heavy sigh. It was truly difficult for him to grasp how she was feeling the way she did. He's never really truly felt the way she so evidently did, so how was he to understand? The closest experience he has had with anything like this was his PTSD when he returned from Afghanistan. He also was tortured, but clearly not as much as she. He had seen cases such as hers while at war; fellow comrades facing the same overall struggle as she was. Dealing with losing friends, not having their families, not knowing what to do. Granted he never actually worked _with_ them, but he had seen it before.

Why couldn't she understand that there were people around her who loved and cared for her? Was it such a difficult concept for her to comprehend that she was not alone, as she thought she was? Clearly, she cared enough for those around her to put on her happy-go-lucky façade, so how could she not know that those same people reciprocated those feelings? Unless that's not why she put on the façade. Perhaps she did it for the sole purpose of protecting herself, to not let her secret out. She obviously didn't want help with it, so it would make sense. Was she really that self-centred though? He thought that at least part of why she had masked her pain was out of love for her friends.

In a way, she reminded him of Sherlock. The mysterious man who never lets anyone know much of him, who hides everything. He dealt with his pain in his own way and refused to let anyone else interfere with it. The man with a troubled past and his own vices. The man who went through life protecting those he loves by becoming stoic, emotionless. The man with no regard for his own well-being or life. The man who had been caught several times with his vices. The man whose slip up made him better. John only hoped that Molly's slip up would also better her.

The more he thought about it, the more he realised their differences as well. Sherlock started as a confused boy, not knowing what he had been getting into. Molly also most likely started young, probably after her parents passed on, but the dissimilarity was she knew what she was doing. It wasn't like she was experimenting and dabbling in drugs like the consulting detective had done. No, she knew full well that she was harming herself and that she was going down a terrible path. She knew how this would end for her. She knew, plain and simple. She didn't make the mistake of a teenager, she made a fully informed decision.

He snapped out of his thoughts, only becoming more enraged and confused with them. He glanced at the clock and saw that it was nearly three thirty. He had to be off to work soon. He just hoped that Sherlock would be back in time to take over Molly watch. Just on cue, he received a text message from his curly headed best friend.

_On my way back. Be there in fifteen. –SH_

He sighed in instant relief as he knew Mary wouldn't be coming home from her shift until at least five. Sherlock never had definite hours; he tended to come and go as he pleased. The man never seemed to rest, nut today John was glad that Sherlock wouldn't be gone until he decided to bless them with his presence. Knowing him, he probably knew what time John had to be to the hospital for work and purposely decided to return to Molly's flat by that time. His shift started at four thirty and he had to leave by four at the latest.

Exactly fifteen minutes later, Sherlock was back at the flat for Molly.

"She's not in a very forgiving or forthcoming mood, mate," John warned him. "She woke up around one, isn't quite talkative, hasn't eaten or drank anything, and is quite temperamental."

"I can handle it," Sherlock assured him.

"Don't say anything to make it worse, you git. Don't fuck up the situation more than it already is," he said. And with that, the good doctor left the detective and the pathologist alone, without her knowing.

Sherlock took his seat in the chair next to the window that had previously been occupied by his partner. He, like the previous watcher, observed Molly. Her breathing appeared to be steady and her colour (the little colour she had in the first place) seemed to be returning. Some stray hair had fallen into her face, giving her a slight little veil, shielding her from the rest of the world. He wanted to push the strays back to where they belonged, but deemed it unnecessary and inappropriate. Other than that, his dear pathologist looked fine. Well, as fine as someone in her position and condition could be.

However, this was only at first glance. If you looked closer, really observed her, you could see her troubles even in her sleep. Her legs were twitching in her sleep suggesting something awful in her dreams. She let out small whimpers as well also suggesting a nightmare. Just then, Sherlock noticed a few tears start to stream down her face. She also began to murmur and scream just a tad.

That's when Sherlock decided it was time to interfere. He walked over to the bed and began to shake her gently in an attempt to wake her up. When that didn't work, he tried calling out her name. Her eyes flew open and she bolted up, breathing heavily clearly in a panic. It took her a minute, but she managed to regulate her breathing and calm down enough to take in her surroundings, becoming disappointed when she saw who was beside her.

"You're here?"

"Yes, John had to leave for work and we weren't going to leave you alone," Sherlock explained.

"Right, because God forbid I control my own life and whatnot," molly muttered under her breath.

"Molly-," Sherlock drew out carefully, in a low baritone voice, but he never got to finish the thought as she changed the subject.

"John told me you went out on your case. Did you find out anything about the Jane Doe?"

Sherlock, delighted with the subject she chose to switch to, and a tad surprised to say the least, answered her question, "Why, yes. I managed to discover her identity. Turns out someone did know her."

"Well?"

"Her name was Kiera Estes," he told her and she visibly paled.

Looking at the man in front of her with dull, sad eyes she said, "I knew her."


	5. Small Lies and Big Discoveries

Chapter 5

She fell back onto her back and covered her face with her hands. Sherlock thought for a moment that it was out of embarrassment, but then thought that it could be out of frustration, anger, and sadness. He could tell just by the way she said it and the way she looked at him that she was a little bit ashamed of herself as well. While he agreed that she probably should have been able to identify the victim during the autopsy, he believed that she was on no condition to hear that. He didn't know why he didn't say anything to her when he would have anyone else, but something inside of him did stop him from making a total ass of himself.

For a moment, he felt something he didn't quite recognise. He thoroughly believed that he was feeling sympathy for the lass. He wasn't sure, however, as it was a completely foreign emotion. He wasn't sure if he liked the emotion or not. He was leaning towards no, but he really didn't have a choice. Unsure of what to do next, he took her hand and squeezed it reassuringly. She pulled her hand from his and sat back up.

"I should have known. I should have recognized her," She said.

"Was she a close friend?" Sherlock asked cautiously.

"Not particularly. Met up with her and a few other people occasionally at the pub."

"Well, then it's… understandable that you were unable to recognise her."

"You would have known. You would have caught it."

"Are you trying to compare yourself to me?"

"I think with this it's more like contrasting," she smirked maniacally.

He cupped her cheek with his hand and looked into her eyes and said, "You don't have to prove yourself to me, Molly Hooper."

"I'm not proving myself to you," she said getting up and walking to the doorway, "I'm proving myself to me."

She walked out of her bedroom and into the kitchen feeling a little more frustrated than she typically did after a discussion with Sherlock. Part of it this time, though, was that she didn't know that she would be waking up to the intelligent git rather than the careful doctor. But, a large part of it was that when she talked to John, there was a possibility that he wasn't listening or paying close enough attention whereas with Sherlock she _knew_ that he was taking in every single word that was said, storing it in that bloody mind palace of his.

She went to the cupboard that she kept her glasses in and got one out. She yelled back to Sherlock, assuming he was still in her bedroom, to see if he wanted something to drink and was surprised when he answered from right behind her with a negative response. She shrugged and left the glass count at one getting out a bottle of whiskey from another cabinet. She started to unscrew the bottle, but Sherlock grabbed her arm and stopped her. She turned around to face him, staring into his omniscient pale blue eyes. Just as she was about to say something, there was a knock on her door.

"Would you do me a favour, Sherlock, and get the door?" she said with a look in her eyes that was rare for her, daring him to not do as she asked.

He begrudgingly obeyed her, not wishing for the fury hidden behind her eyes to become a reality – let alone one leashed upon him. When he finally turned away from her to get the door, she poured herself a glass of whiskey, gingerly taking a large swig. She heard a voice that she recognised coming from the doorway speaking back to Sherlock as she finished the glass. Not paying much attention to what was going on at the other end of her flat, she opted to skip the glass and drink straight from the bottle, something she hadn't done in quite some time, but had done before nonetheless.

"Molly, you have company," Sherlock said returning back to the small kitchen with Detective Inspector Lestrade.

"Oh, um, hello Greg," she said, slowly setting down the bottle.

"Mike told me you were out today and would be for some time, so I thought I would stop by and make sure everything's okay…" he said. It must have been at just that moment that he started truly paying attention to Molly and noted that her hand and her arms were covered with gauze and such as he asked, "What the bloody hell happened?"

"Nothing," she replied sheepishly. "It's really not the big of a deal, I'm fine."

"Are you sure? You look a little… ghostly."

"Seriously, I'm good. You can go now. I'll be back to work soon. Had some time and I chose to take a few days off, no big deal."

"Really? Because as I recall, you don't particularly fancy hard liquor," he challenged.

"And as I recall, you don't particularly keep tabs on me. Nor have you even really seen me drink since we're only work colleagues at best."

The two men looked at each other, with a look that Molly didn't recognise. She couldn't put her finger on their expression, but she was confident she had won that fight. She glanced at Greg and then at the door, silently telling him to leave, but he didn't. It was clear that Sherlock wasn't going to interfere either, making her feel more trapped than she already did. She wasn't sure why she felt like this though. It's not like she felt guilty or embarrassed for what she did. Maybe it was because all the people who she felt were trapping her were trying to fix her when she wasn't broken to begin with. She also knew that if she told the wrong person, or slipped up in front of the wrong person, she wouldn't be "recovering" from her flat, but from a hospital or rehab. And Greg was that wrong person to slip up to.

"Was there something else you needed Detective Inspector? Or did you come here simply to pester me about my supposed drinking habits?" she asked with a smile.

He stepped closer to her and whispered into her ear, "I can't help if you don't tell me what happened."

"Don't worry, officer. Nothing illegal happened."

"If nothing illegal happened then why can't you just tell me?" the grey –haired man asked.

"I burned myself on the range. There. I didn't want to tell you because it's embarrassing. Nothing illegal, just clumsiness. I'm fine, but taking a few days to let them heal."

Lestrade looked at her, studying her. For a moment, she feared she would get caught in her lie. He could ask for proof, but he decided not to, much to her relief. He wished her well and finally waltzed out the door. She was so glad that Greg was a dunce and didn't catch her lie as it was quite a terrible one. She didn't know why she didn't just say that Toby was being a cat and scratched her. After all, that is the lie she tried to spin on Sherlock, and it was a much better one than saying she had gotten burned.

"Yes, nothing illegal about lying to Scotland Yard," Sherlock said as the door closed behind the Detective.

"We both know he's incompetent enough to not catch the lie. Plus, you don't exactly have the best record when it comes to them, so if you could quit being a hypocrite, that'd be great."

"I'm not trying to be a hypocrite-,"

"You never try to be one, it's just who you are, Sherlock," she turned, put the whiskey away, and left towards the bathroom.

"Where do you think you're going?"

"To take a damn shower, which I'm pretty sure I can do on my own."

"Drowning in self-confidence now, are we?"

"Fuck you!" she yelled as she slammed and locked the bathroom door.

Sherlock knew that if he went over and possibly said anything else, nothing would get better and everything could only go downhill from there. For once, he recognised when to shut the hell up and let the situation be. Who knew, maybe giving her some space and time to straighten out her thoughts would be just what she needed. He heard the water start to run and took that as a good sign, moving to the couch and opting to think more on the situation at hand in regards to Molly.

He still wasn't sure that he knew how to help her, how to take care of her. Hell, he barely knew how to take care of himself. He knew that she didn't want to talk about, well, anything, but he also acknowledged that she needed to. She needed to let all of her struggles out to perhaps get a grasp on them or even figure out exactly what they were. But, above all, he knew she didn't trust him enough to tell her anything. Anything truthful anyways.

As she stood in the shower, letting the scorching hot water run down her body, that's exactly what she thought too. She shouldn't trust Sherlock, yet a part of her wanted to tell him anything to alleviate her anguish. Hell, she opened up a little for John and she didn't even see him as often as she saw Sherlock. Lately, she had even been trying to teach Sherlock how to interact with actual human beings. Granted, it wasn't going too well, but still. Maybe, just maybe, she could bring herself to just tell him what she had told John.

Her thoughts eventually slowed and she started to notice how painful the water was against her injuries. As much as she appreciated not having racing thoughts, she didn't appreciate the stinging cuts so much. Each drop of water was hell on her now uncovered cuts and scars. She quickly turned off the water after noticing the pain, muttering _fuck_ under her breath as she got out of the shower and wrapped her towel around her naked body. Each step she took hurt the cut on her leg.

She sighed and wiped the steam off of the mirror over the sink. Even she knew that she looked tired. She had bags under eyes and her face was sort of sunken rather than its "normally" happy, perked-up form. Her skin was a sickening and ghostly tint of white. Her eyes were paler than normal and seemed to have no life to them. She tried to see if she could get them back to how they would typically look by thinking of things that make her happy, but not only could she not liven up her eyes, she couldn't even think of anything that made her happy. She had the urge to punch the mirror again, but found the strength to restrain herself. One bad hand and one broken mirror was enough for one week.

With the towel wrapped around her, she proceeded to leave the bathroom, hopefully without running into Sherlock. She cracked the door open to see if Sherlock was watching the door or anything, but couldn't see him in the immediate view of the loo. She carefully, silently, walked out of the bathroom still cautious and paranoid of Sherlock's whereabouts, so she looked around again. What she saw almost elated her for the first time in what seemed like forever. She saw Sherlock on the couch in the lounge, his back towards her, bonding with Toby. She cracked a small, half grin then continued into her bedroom.

Going towards the wardrobe, she noticed there was still shards of shattered glass on the floor from the night prior. She rolled her eyes at the scene and more so the foolishness that had happened. She still didn't understand why she did it or the inadmissible desire she had to do it, she just knew that in that moment she had to do it. She still went into her wardrobe, however, being diligent about stepping around the glass. She got out some clean, old, tattered university sweatpants and a camisole before going back out to join Sherlock.

Seeing Sherlock sprawled put on her sofa with Toby on his stomach filled her with a feeling she couldn't quite place. But, before she could even stand there for long enough to figure it out, Sherlock noticed her presence.

"So are you ready to talk about what just happened?" he asked her.

"Well, I have a feeling I don't really have an option," she replied as she sat in a chair.

"No, I suppose not. Why did you lie to Greg? Out of all of us, I would have thought that you would trust him more. He certainly has a better capability of helping, so why not tell him the truth? Are you ashamed?"

She took in his words and thought about what he was asking. "No, I wouldn't say that I'm ashamed of what I did. Far from, actually. I lied to him because my job is on the line with something like this. I could get suspended. And as for Greg helping me, you of all people should know that he would just try to put me in some hospital."

"Do you not trust him as a friend?" Sherlock inquired further.

"Well, seeming as though we aren't friends, I can't exactly trust him as one, can I?"

"…I suppose not."

Molly got out of her chair, the conversation over to her. She began to make her way towards the door, putting on a pair of flats and a jacket.

"Where could you possibly be going?"

"It's only six-thirty, so literally anywhere," she said, walking out the door.

She made several rounds wandering her block and the surrounding ones before deciding where she felt she had to go. She walked the familiar path she took nearly every day, with the exception of today, obviously. As she walked to St. Barts, she felt the creepy sensation of someone following her, or at the very least watching her. When she looked around, however, she saw nothing out of the ordinary.

She made her way to the hospital in the in the chilled, late November air. The leaves on the ground crunched against the weight of her step. There was a light drizzle, which didn't surprise her. Nothing could really surprise her right now. A dog could drive a car next to her, and she still wouldn't be surprised. She didn't know why, but it was like she just simply couldn't be bothered to feel even surprise.

Arriving at St. Bart's, she went immediately down to the morgue. One of her superiors saw her attempting to sneak down a corridor and tried to talk to her. She asked her what she was doing her since she took the next few days off. Molly didn't answer her, simply walking by her, but her supervisor was quite persistent. Molly managed to come up with a half-assed excuse, saying that she was here to pick up something she forgot when she left the other night.

When she arrived at the lab, she dismissed the current person on duty. She couldn't even remember his name, though she had talked to him a few times prior. Telling him to take a break and that she would come get him when she was finished, he thanked her and walked out the door.

She pulled Kiera out of the freezer and put her body on the table for further, more thorough examination. She started by pulling out a few strands of Kiera's hair and putting it under the microscope. It was clear now, even without the lab report, that she had ingested a significant amount of bleach. How could she have missed that earlier? How could she have been so careless? She knew she hadn't exactly been on her a-game earlier, but, Jesus, this was so evident a blind man could see it!

As she turned the microscope off, she once again felt the eerie feeling of someone watching her, but now she knew why and who. Nobody else would care about her presence at the moment.

"Sherlock, I don't know where you are hiding, but I do know you're here so you can just be here. I'm not leaving though," she announced.

"How'd you know? I thought I had made myself scarce."

"You're the only one stupid enough to be around me right now, Sherlock. That's how. You're the only one to think that I'd show up here."

As she pulled some papers from Kiera's file, she noticed someone had written something on a post-it note on one of the papers: _Noticed something in the mouth of Jane Doe. Didn't want to mess with your corpse, but you should check it out. –Nicholas. _

That was the lad's name! Nicholas! She noted to thank him later, but for now she had to find whatever it was in her mouth that was out of the ordinary. She pulled the magnifier over Kiera's propped-open mouth and grabbed a pair of tweezers. Nothing was in the bottom jaw nor the top jaw. She did, however, notice something white-ish in the back of the throat. She pulled it out gently and revealed a small piece of rolled up paper.

She unrolled the paper to reveal a note.

_You're next, Molls. Or maybe another friend first. Haven't decided yet. Times almost up, dearie. –T._

"Sherlock, come look at this," she said in a confused voice.

She handed him the note and his blue eyes scanned over the words, his face contorting in a way that was a cross between fear, confusion, and protection.

"We should get you somewhere safe, Molly. Somewhere they won't find you."

"You've got to be kidding me," she exclaimed. "We don't even know who it is or what they are capable of or anything. We know nothing."

"Exactly. How do you not understand that? Are you not scared?"

"Honestly? No, I'm really not. And, no, it's not some sort of death wish. Or at least I don't think so. I'd just rather figure this out than hide like a scared little girl," she admitted.

Sherlock stared at her as if he couldn't comprehend what she had just said, and he didn't. He didn't understand how she wasn't scared. Someone had just threatened her life and she showed not one sign of fear. No sweat, her voice wasn't shaking, her body wasn't shaking, nothing.

She seemed to pick up on his confusion and told him, "It's not because I'm crazy or insane. I just can't have another death on me, okay? I'm not going to let someone else die in my place."

"We don't even know who this is. How can I possibly protect you from an unknown enemy **and **yourself at the same time?"

"Firstly, I didn't ask for you to help me. I didn't ask for you to protect me. Secondly, maybe you don't know who this is, but I'm pretty sure I do. I think it's Tom, Sherlock."

Thinking about it, it made sense to Sherlock. If Molly knew Kiera then it was very likely that Tom did too. They had probably all gone out together. And it was obviously someone that knew Molly and wanted to harm her. Also, the way they phrased it: "_another friend."_ It insinuated that it was a friend of his too and since the two were engaged for quite some time they would definitely have joint friends. And after the engagement being called off, he was bound to have some resentment towards his pathologist.

"Very good, Molly," he tried complimenting her deduction, but she wasn't paying him any attention. She was too busy staring at Kiera's corpse quite intensely. "Molly, stop. It's not going to help you."

"Doesn't matter," she said, not moving.

Sherlock pulled on her arm to get her away from the table, turning her to him in the process. She was biting down on her lip, with a look in her eyes that screamed pain. That's when he remembered why he was even with her in the first place.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to hurt you."

"You never do," she sighed.

"But you do. Why?" he asked. Sure, it probably wasn't a good time to bring this up, but she was in a more vulnerable state to reveal the truth, so he took the opportunity.

"Why? Why do you all of a sudden care about me, care about what I do?"

"I honestly don't know. I just know that I can't lose you, Molly Hooper. So, please, tell me. Tell me anything really. I just want to help you."

She thought about that for a few minutes. Sherlock Holmes not knowing something? That has never happened before, which means that whatever it was that was confusing was not something logical or observational. That meant that it had to be emotional, something he was experiencing, some sort of feeling. That sort of scared Molly in a way. Yes, she had and did like him very much, but she didn't know how she would feel if he reciprocated those feelings considering she had never thought it to be a possibility.

Finally she said, "Part of the reason as to why I do what I do is that I knew I wouldn't get caught. I knew nobody would notice. And, I don't see you unless you're on a case and need lab access, so I didn't think much about you catching on. If I had, I obviously would have been more careful. But, unfortunately, you have to go sticking your nose into other people's business."

"You truly think that nobody would have noticed? That nobody would have cared? Don't you?"

"Well it was going as planned for months until you showed up," she defended herself.

Sherlock was shocked at how long this had gone on. Even further, he was shocked that nobody had noticed anything. He knew people were stupid and unobservant, but honestly you didn't have to be a detective to figure it out, to pick up on her odd behaviour and changing attitudes. But, then again, she never really got close to many people so they probably never had the chance.

That's when he did something neither of them would have expected. He leaned down and placed a gentle kiss on her lips. Every fibre of her being told her to kiss him back, but she knew better in her mind. She knew that if she let this happen, she would end up getting hurt because that's what he did. He hurt her.

After a moment, she stepped back and said, "Don't."

Sherlock looked at her, confused. Wasn't that what she wanted since day one? He knew she was infatuated with him, so why was she rejecting it. It didn't make sense to him, but he respected her wishes.

"I'm sorry," he said, "I shouldn't have done that. I just thought…"

"Well you thought wrong. This isn't what I need right now. I don't need you complicating things for me and I sure as hell don't need you using me. Actually, you have nothing to use me for! I give you access to the lab, to equipment, to literally everything you need. What else could you possibly want?"

"You," he replied without hesitation.

"I don't even have me, Sherlock."

There was a long pause between the two of them. Neither of them had anything left to say, and they were left in an awkward, uncomfortable silence. They were both trying to calm their own individual storms within. Molly was confused and enraged by the action because of all the opportunities he has had with her, now is the time he chooses? And for Sherlock, he didn't exactly understand the situation and was trying to figure it out. He thought he had done what he was supposed to in order to show Molly his feelings and affection.

"We should get going," Molly spoke up after several odd minutes, putting away Kiera's corpse.

Molly went to get Nicholas, and Sherlock followed her out to the street. They walked in dead silence through the streets of London. And, even though Sherlock was walking with her, she still had the weird feeling of being watched. On her way here, she had assumed it was Sherlock (or at least she did once she figured out he was at the morgue with her), but now she wasn't so sure.

"Had you followed me to the morgue earlier?" she asked, shocking him out of whatever trance he was in.

"No, I had just assumed that you were heading there so I went straight there. Why?"

"I just…" she trailed.

"Molly," Sherlock said in a warning tone.

"On the way to St. Bart's, I had the weird feeling of someone watching me, following me. I had assumed it was you, but now… could it actually be Tom?"

"It's very possible. Let's just get you to your flat, you'll be safer there than in the open." Or at least that what he thought…


	6. Desired Answers and Unexpected Truths

Hello my lovies! It has been so long since I gave you all an update and I am so sorry for that. Hopefully this will make up for and then some. Hopefully I'll have another update in a month or so, but if that doesn't happen please don't kill me. I want to thank everyone for sticking with this story and for reading and for reviewing. Hopefully this chapter isn't too confusing since I wrote most of this chapter over the course of two weeks late at night most nights. Let me know what you guys wanna see happen or if you are completely confused or anything. I love getting suggestions from you guys and love your criticisms. Thanks so much and here ya go! Enjoy!  
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Chapter 6

When they arrived at her flat, it was a ton messier than they had left it. And by a ton messier, I mean completely destroyed. The curtains were torn, her magazines and books were all over the place, some glasses smashed in the kitchen. Molly took it all in, not completely sure how to feel about her surroundings. She should have been filled with fear or anger, but she wasn't. Sherlock feared for her safety more than she did which was equally alarming. The only thing Molly felt was relief when she heard the pip-pap of Toby's little paws on the hallway floor, walking towards her and Sherlock.

"Well, at least the cat is unharmed," Sherlock said, trying to find the silver lining, something he rarely did, but he thought it could offer some comfort to Molly.

"Well, yeah. What kind of psychopath would kill a cat?" Molly asked.

"Gee, I don't know, the same kind that would murder an innocent woman?"

Molly rolled her eyes at her companion before walking back into her bedroom. For the most part, it looked in tact – or as in tact it could be with a broken mirror. The only thing that was different was a large glass shard on the nightstand with a note on it with only her name printed on it. She picked it up and stared at it with such intent that Sherlock was afraid that she was going to do something to herself with it. She sat on her bed, only to stand up once more and pull back her sheets. Doing so, she saw something that she hadn't in a very long time: her class ring from university.

Under normal circumstances, it probably wouldn't rattle anyone to the bone. But, for Molly, it meant that Tom had dug up her father and taken it from his casket. She sat once again to think for a moment, but it was only a moment before she stood up once more to make her way into the living room and begin to put on her coat.

"Where are you possibly going now?" Sherlock asked her both annoyed and concerned.

"He dug up my father, so I'm pissed. I'm gonna find him, Sherlock. Nobody touches my family," she said getting angrier by the second, squeezing the glass shard in her hand so hard that her palm started to bleed, but she didn't feel it.

"Molly," Sherlock warned, looking at her hand.

She looked down at her hand noting the blood, but not caring too much. Sherlock walked closer to her, bringing her in for a tight embrace. For once, it seemed as though she trusted him, sinking into the hug. Sherlock thought this to be a good sign, but he couldn't see that she was using the glass shard. He did however, feel her blood begin to seep through the back of his shirt as they hugged. He looked at her with what seemed to be dismay while trying to wrestle the glass from her grasp. Eventually, however, he did get the glass from her as she fell to the ground, sobbing.

"This is all my fault," she repeated over and over and over again.

Sherlock sat next to her on the floor of her living room not quite sure of what to do or say to make her feel better. He didn't know why she thought all of this was her fault, but right now the why didn't matter. All that mattered was keeping her safe from both herself and Tom. She repeatedly asked for the shard of glass back, not having the strength to stand up or fight him for it. Desperate to feel anything besides her own emotional pain and anger, she dug her nails into her legs, scratching and clawing as if she was trying to physically get something off of her. He attempted to take her hands in his in order to get her to stop, but to both of their surprises, she kicked him in the stomach with strength neither of them knew she even had.

She got up off of the ground and made a run for her balcony, but Sherlock quickly caught up to her. Not that it mattered anyway – the doorknob was missing off of the balcony door which was locked. She looked behind her to Sherlock, steaming. Not only because he had removed her doorknob, but also because he had trapped her. She saw virtually no way out of the predicament she was in. She slid down the door and sat back on the floor, Sherlock sitting beside her. She held her hand out in front of him, but he didn't know what for.

"Come on, Sherlock. I know you always have a pack on you, don't try to bullshit me," she said.

He sighed in resignation, getting up to go to his coat. She knew him too well, knowing that he would always have a pack of cigarettes somewhere on his person. He tossed the pack over to her along with a lighter. She pulled one out of the pack that was mostly empty anyway and lit it, taking in a large drag.

"Didn't know you smoked," he said simply.

"Hm. Something the great Sherlock Holmes didn't know? Fascinating. Don't do it often. These things'll kill ya, ya know?" Molly said.

"Yeah, because what you already do won't." he said half-jokingly.

"Not on its own," she said taking a quick drag, puffing out the smoke with a large sigh.

"Why won't you talk to any of us? You talked to John for a moment, but then nothing. Why?"

"Because now you're actually listening," she answered easily. "It was one thing when you guys were pretending to listen, never actually taking in what I say. But, now you're all listening intently and I will not let you all hear. I can't."

"Well, you're either going to talk to us or you'll be explaining this to Mike and Greg," he countered.

"Yeah, sure. Like, they'll believe a drug addict," she laughed off.

"Ex-drug addict. Why is that so hard for everyone to grasp? But you're right, no they won't. But they will believe a doctor, won't they?"

"Fine. You've got me in a corner, I guess."

"Great! Let's go."

"I'm sorry, go where?" she asked.

"My flat. They're already there," he said, standing up, looking at her.

She sighed and put out her cigarette on her hand, making Sherlock cringe a little bit. The only solace he really had was that she was going to talk. She bit her lip and smiled, feeling a bit of euphoria coursing through her veins. She stood up and walked to the door, waiting for Sherlock to follow her. She heard his footsteps and proceeded to make her way out to the street to hail a cab.

After the longest silent cab ride of her life, they finally arrived to Baker Street. Molly was led in by Sherlock and greeted by John and Mary at Sherlock's door. She lay on the couch as Sherlock and John took their respective chairs and Mary sat beside her. They all seemed to just stare at Molly, expecting her to just tell them everything, let everything spill, but she never did. She calmly looked at the three of them and realized this expectation and began to chuckle.

"You guys don't seriously expect me to just fill in every gap at once do you? You get to ask specific questions to which I will provide honest answers. Nothing generic as in no asking just simply why. Understood?" she asked, meeting each of their eyes.

"What did you mean when you said it was your fault that this is happening?" Sherlock was the first to ask.

She took a moment to form a calculated answer that would allow her to say the bare minimum and responded with, "I shouldn't have said 'no'."

Mary was the first person to say anything as she knew exactly what Molly was implying, whereas the boys didn't. Most men wouldn't even comment on the subject or take any kind of stance at all, but being a woman Mary felt it was her duty to help a fellow woman because to her, this topic shouldn't be ignored by anyone regardless of gender or sexuality.

"Molly," Mary began, "you didn't owe him anything, especially not your body. This is not your fault."

"His real issue wasn't that I said no, it's that I fought back."

"Molly-," John began, but was quickly interrupted by Molly.

"Save it. Next question."

"Family?" John asked.

"Specify."

"What're they like?"

"Dead. I told you that already or weren't you listening?" she challenged him.

"Everyone?" asked Mary, growing more concerned for the lonely woman next to her.

"Yeah. Dad had cancer, nobody knows what happened to our mum."

"Our?" Sherlock asked. "There's more than one Hooper?"

"Was. There **was** more than one Hooper. He's six feet under. Drank himself to death after Dad went."

"When did you start? It clearly wasn't recently, though it has surely been more frequently lately," Sherlock said.

"Sometime in secondary. And no, I don't remember why, I don't remember how. I just remember. It's been ruining my life since I was thirteen."

"What's made it worse?" Sherlock asked, seemingly caring more about where she is going versus where she was. He thought maybe if he could fix it, she would be okay.

"You get bored, you shoot up. I get bored, I play a game called Will I Wake Up. It's the only way to silence my head for a few lovely moments. When I close my eyes, I can feel him on me. Sometimes I just don't sleep, other times I try to feel something."

Sherlock, John, and Mary all looked to each other, new information bombarding their brains with nothing to do with the information. They didn't truly understand, but they were getting the picture, however, Molly's answers were very calculated and deliberate and even in her answers, there was still mystery. She only told part of the truth to each question, never actually answering in full, just answering satisfactory answers with as little information as possible. The three of them only suspected that, though. They couldn't exactly force her to expand because they were just happy they were getting any kind of answer.

Molly was exhausted in every form of the word, but remained with the trio sat before her. She hoped they were out of questions for her because she was too tired to continue to articulate carefully constructed answers for them. They appeared to be finished with the conversation for now, though she knew it wasn't over for good. She began to drift off into sleep, which she was wary of; she wasn't certain if it would be restful or if she'd be waking up screaming which she found herself doing more often than not.

Noticing her drift off, Sherlock picked her up to move her to his bed. It's not like he was going to use it anyway, so why should she have to sleep on the couch? He gently placed her on the bed and put a blanket over her resting form. He made sure to close the door quietly as to not wake her up. When he got back into the living room, he put his coat and scarf on, preparing to do some research.

"Where are you going?" John asked him.

"To find answers. You coming?"

"Shouldn't someone be here with Molly, if not in the same room as her?"

"Mary will stay. I think she's fine not having someone watch over her sleep right now. So, are you coming or not?"

"Go!" Mary urged her boys. "I can take care of Molly. You two go find out what going on with the dead friend."

As the two men exited the flat, Mary was left alone with a sleeping Molly in the other room. She wasn't sure what to make of the situation she was in. She thought of Molly as a close friend, but apparently those thoughts weren't reciprocated. She never even thought of Molly as being in danger from her herself. There was never any obvious signs, but then again, there rarely was in these types of situations. Maybe there was signs, but she just didn't want to see them. Maybe it was lack of two-way communication.

The more she thought about it, Molly rarely talked about herself. Whenever Mary would ask Molly something personal, she would give a half-assed answer and turn the conversation back towards Mary. She didn't even know Molly's family was dead. She never knew she had a brother. There was so much she didn't know about the woman she would easily consider her best friend. There was so much she wanted to do for her friend, but couldn't. Not on her own anyways. She wondered how to help Molly, especially when Molly didn't seem to want any help. It's not even as if she didn't understand the dangers of what she was doing to herself; she just didn't care.

She wondered what it was like in Molly's head; how waking up feels; how dreaming of not waking up feels. She thought if maybe she could get a glimpse of what it was really like for Molly, she would understand how she was who she was. But then again, maybe she didn't want to. If Molly, who was used to it, couldn't handle what it was like in there, then how could she expect herself to. She only wanted to know how. How it was so easy for her to do these things to herself. How it was so easy to dismiss herself as someone worthy of living and being loved. How she could so easily put on a façade for _years_ without having anyone notice. How she ended up slipping through the cracks and being invisible.

Of course, there were no easy answers to any of the questions she had. She knew she couldn't actually get a real glimpse of her mind and how it actually works and thinks. She knew there was a small probability of actually getting any of these answers out of Molly. The one thing, though, that she really wanted to know, no, _needed_ to know, was why Molly thought she couldn't trust her, John or Sherlock with anything. Okay, well, she understood why she didn't trust Sherlock and open up to him, but she always thought that she and John were people that their friends could be open and honest with. She expected Sherlock to shut them out, but at least they knew he trusted them. With Molly, everything was up in the air and nothing was clear.

It pained her to see her like this, but there wasn't much she could do. She was breaking from the inside out and all anyone could really do was watch it happen. It's not like they wanted to, it's just all they could do. They couldn't stop watching it happen because they didn't want to leave her to herself. They couldn't stand to watch it either though, but it was the only way to stay with her. She thought about maybe taking Molly to a hospital where she could get real help, but she knew as soon as that happened, all hopes of Molly trusting them and letting them in would be obliterated. She also knew that as soon as Molly would step foot in a hospital, she would no longer truly be a person. She would simply be another patient to examine and scrutinize.

Tired of being alone with these thoughts, she got up to check on Molly. She cracked open the door to Sherlock's bedroom and saw the form of a sleeping Molly, gently snoring. She seemed peaceful, but Mary wasn't looking close enough to see that Molly's breathing was actually quite rapid and panicky because Molly's sleep was anything but peaceful.

By now, Molly was used to having nightmares, but lately they've been getting weirder and weirder. She didn't know what was going to happen in her brain each night; what would be waiting for her when she finally allowed herself to get rest. There was so many possibilities whenever she went to sleep. She could relive what happened with Tom. She could be reunited with her family, everyone smiling and happy. She could relive every horrible moment where Sherlock just couldn't keep his mouth shut and end up hurting her. Tonight, though, none of that happened. Tonight it was different.

_The smell of sea water was fresh and overpowering. Seagulls rang in the distance and a light breeze hit Molly's face. The house she was in front of was the same one that she had been blocking out of her mind since she went away to university. The same one where so many horrible memories played out. The same one where so long ago she loved. Sure, she remembered the happy memories, but they were so few and far that the bad ones overpowered. She tried her damnedest to focus on the few happy memories she could remember._

_She could see herself and Aiden playing football in the small backyard. She could see where the goal once stood. Where she first learnt to ride a bike. Where she would lay and read a book on summer days. She could see better times. But she could also see all the bad memories playing out. _

_She could hear her parents screaming at each other. She could hear her brother crying in the room adjacent hers. She could hear the other children taunting her. She could see where Aiden had his first dalliance with alcohol and how she just knew that this wouldn't end well for him. She could picture her mother leaving and never coming back, leaving her and Aiden with just their father, who had always fancied a drink, but never like he did when their mother left. She remembered all the times where she had to be the parent to her brother and her father. She played the memory of her first cut over and over and over. She remembered the feeling of slight control over her life that it gave her and subsequently the feeling of needing more. _

_She scratched at her arm, recalling the feeling and wanting it again. But, before she could do anything, the scene changed. She suddenly no longer felt a breeze. She no longer heard seagulls or smelled the ocean air. She was back in London, but not her London. This London was quiet. This London didn't have busy streets. This London didn't have people on the sidewalks or in the shops or in the restaurants. This London was far worse than the real London because she was the only one there. Or at least she thought she was. _

_She heard a gunshot and for some reason started heading in the direction of the sound. There was a second shot from the same direction, then a third. Her gut sank as she found herself standing at Baker Street. She argued with herself as to whether or not she should go in. Sherlock could have just been shooting at his damn wall again. But she knew that wasn't the reason for the shots. She knew she had to go in and face what was in there. She sighed and dug deep down to find the courage to open the door and walk up the stairs to the flat she was ever-so familiar with. _

_She bit down on her lip as she opened the door knowing that what she saw wasn't going to be pretty. She opened the door to find Mary, John, and Sherlock dead. She stifled a small cry and tried to find a pulse in any of them only to find nothing. This was all her fault and she knew it. This is why she didn't let herself get close to people. Because whenever she did, bad things happened. She didn't physically pull the trigger, but she may as well have. If she had just gone a few days sooner, none of this would have happened. If she had just worn a sweater with longer sleeves, they wouldn't be attached to all of this. __**If she hadn't said no and if she hadn't struggled, maybe things wouldn't be this way.**_

_She could feel herself losing control of her mind. It was a feeling she was all too familiar with. She looked around for something, anything, she could use, but found nothing. She ran into the kitchen, but there was nothing. No knives, no scissors, nothing. She went back into the living room and sat next to her dead friends and began to sob violently. She thought she was going to have to sit there in despair, but then she heard the cocking of a gun. She knew her fate and was relieved. She patiently waited for the bullet to pierce her skin, but when the trigger was pulled and the shot sounded she didn't get her death._

Molly awoke with a start, eyes wide, breath quick and shallow. She was trying to figure out where she was because she knew for damn sure it wasn't her room. As she calmed down, she remembered that she was in Sherlock's flat and therefore his bed. She turned on the lamp that sat on the bedside table. She thought that being able to see her surroundings would bring some peace, but as soon as she saw that there was something on the table, all hopes of peace were gone. It was a tape recorded and she just knew that it wasn't put there by either of the Watsons or from Sherlock. Her stomach dropped when she realized what that meant. Tom had been here. He had been in the same room as her. He had seen her sleep.

She hesitantly picked up the recorder and pressed play.

"I miss you. Do you miss me?" asked the voice.

She instantly knew something was off about that recording. Something wasn't right and wasn't lining up. She practically ran out of the room shouting for John, Mary, and Sherlock. Mary, who had drifted off after checking on Molly, quickly awoke asking Molly what was wrong and if she was okay.

"Where's Sherlock and John? They should be here for this," Molly said talking at a rate that was way faster than normal.

"They went out to gather intel. What's wrong, Molly?"

Molly played the recording for Mary, who was shocked and ashamed all at the same time. How could he have gotten in here? How could she have been so foolish as to fall asleep when her friend's life was in danger from both Tom and herself. Her thoughts were interrupted by Molly.

"Don't you get it?" Molly asked.

"Get what? That Tom managed to get in here? That I messed up? What am I missing?"

"No!" she yelled, exasperatedly. "That's just it! It's not Tom! Tom isn't Irish!"


	7. Unmasked Villains and Masked Plans

**Hey, guys. So I know it has been a while from my last update so I thought I would bless (curse) you all with another chapter. My apologies if it feels rushed and isn't up to par. Shit happens.**

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The boys didn't get home for a few more hours, which left Molly and Mary with their own thoughts about the matter. Now that they knew that it was Moriarity, what were they to do? What **could** they do? They couldn't exactly charge at him head first. They didn't even know what his end-game was. Was it getting to Sherlock or getting to Molly? Based on past events, it would seem his vendetta was against Molly, but Sherlock was the one with whom Moriarity had a bone to pick. What had Molly done? Was she simply a pawn in the game they were playing or did he actually want her? It's not like Molly actually did anything inherently wrong to James. But then again, neither had Kiera.

Mary was not a fan of her only girlfriend being targeted by the world's most dangerous man. She feared for Molly's life and for her own as well. She could very well be Moriarity's next target, but then again she was an ex-assassin and could take care of herself very well. Molly, on the other hand, was a normal person and didn't have the extensive training that she had. Though, at this point, she wasn't truly sure what to make of Molly. Perhaps she could handle herself. Perhaps she was safer than she thought. There was clearly plenty of mystery clouding who Molly really was, and nobody knew the truth.

When the boys came bursting through the door, Sherlock was furious. Molly had only ever seen him like this when he didn't know something or when he had news he didn't like. And with the situation being what it was, neither Molly nor Mary was sure which was making him furious. Based on the fact that Sherlock said nothing, nor did John, the two girls figured it was the former.

"It's Moriarity," said Molly, breaking the silence.

"What's your proof? How do you know?" Sherlock asked rapidly.

"He left me a message."

She played the recording for all of them to hear. It still gave her chills, just thinking about the fact that he had gotten into the flat, into Sherlock's room, that he was near her again. She began to freeze up, her body seemed to stop being able to move and she seemed to forget how to breathe. She bit down on her lip, trying to remember how to breathe and trying to feel something that wasn't this dreadful fear.

Sherlock recognised the voice immediately and knew that Molly was right. But if it was Moriarity, why would he mislead them into thinking he was Tom? He would own up to his crimes. That was his nature; he wanted people to know that it was him. He wanted to be known and he wanted attention. Then, why would he go through all this trouble to disguise his crimes as someone else's? It didn't make sense. Something wasn't right; something wasn't lining up in Sherlock's mind. Remembering his foe, there was nothing he didn't own up to, so why start hiding behind a mask now?

The Irish accent was so distinct that none of them argued that it was indeed Jim Moriarity. They all knew his voice; they all knew his persona; they all knew what he was. The only thing they didn't know was why. Why Molly? It rang through all of their heads, but nobody dared to say it. The question hung in the air in their silence, slowly eating away at the four of them. They all wish they had some sort of answer, but none of them had an inkling of an idea. Normally, they'd be tempted to say that they were using her to get to Sherlock, but this seemed too direct for her just to be a pawn in one of Moriarity's silly games. Then again, was there any actual explanation for anything Moriarity did?

Molly wanted to give herself up to Moriarty just to stop all the games and all the deaths. She was done playing along to his sick game. She was done playing. She was done. She was not sure what was left for him to take of her, but whatever it was, she'd give it to him to stop the madness. So much could happen, sure, but wasn't it worth it if another innocent bystander gets to remain alive?

"Why didn't he just take you?" John asked, snapping everyone else out of their thoughts.

"Pardon?" Molly asked.

"Why didn't he take you when he had the chance? He had the opportunity to simply take you, but he didn't. Why?"

"Torture," Molly answered. The other three looked at her, wary of her answer since typically torture wasn't exactly Moriarity's game. She explained, "Not physical torture, no. Well, not directly anyway. Assuming he's been watching and listening this entire time, he would know what my deal is. He knows. He's enjoying watching us scramble like this. Well, you guys scrambling."

"Are you saying you're not worried?" asked Mary.

"For me? No. For whoever comes next on his list? Terrified. You lot might as well get out while you can," she said as she walked over to window, looking out onto Baker Street.

"And leave you alone and open for attack? Definitely not," Sherlock said.

"You should have left me to die, Sherlock," she said turning to face him. "Nobody else would have gotten hurt if you would have. I can promise you someone else is going to die because you let me live. The only thing is, though, is that it'll be on my conscience, not yours."

"Molly, this isn't your fault," John consoled.

"Not directly, no. But whoever is next is dead because I'm not."

She turned back to the window, trying to ignore the people in the room with her. They could tell her these deaths weren't her fault all that they wanted, but she knew that they were. She didn't know she was doing other people a favor trying to kill herself; she thought she would be the sole benefactor. Sure, regardless Kiera would still be dead, but there wouldn't be a next body because of her had Sherlock been a few minutes later. Why couldn't Moriarity just watch her suffer with the pain of being alive? Why did he have to add to her pain? Was seeing her in pain not enough unless he was contributing to it?

She moved her line of sight from the window across the street to the pavement. She watched as the all the Londoners clogged the pavement trying to get to work during the morning rush. Cars congested the streets, each one making sure everybody else knew they were there and in a rush. With everything and everyone in the morning hustle, one thing stood out to her – or person, that is. There was one person who didn't seem to be moving at all, just staring at 221 Baker Street. One person who was looking directly at her, smirking. She stared directly back at him, thinking it was bold of him to just put himself in public like that, make his presence known. It wasn't like him, but maybe he was just getting impatient.

Maybe it was to put fear in her, but he didn't know she wasn't afraid of him. She lifted her eyebrow at him, as if daring him to do something, make some sort of move. She knew he wouldn't. He wasn't that bold, it wasn't his style. She scoffed and smirked at him.

"Come and get me," she whispered.

"What did you just say?" asked John.

Molly whipped her head around, forgetting she wasn't alone. All three of her companions were staring at her and moved to the window with her to see what she was staring at. Luckily, he was gone. All the others saw was a crowded London street and the peeking sun on the horizon. There was nothing suspicious about any of that (except maybe the sun actually being seen in London). Though, it did appear that Sherlock was staring oddly long at something, or worse – someone.

They all directed their attention back to her as if expecting an explanation of some kind despite the fact they knew they weren't going to get one. She counted her blessings that not even Sherlock had heard her and thanked the Lord for his Mind Palace. However, she needed to get out of here and she needed to leave alone. Nobody else had to get hurt. Nobody else had to die because of her. The only problem was the no one was going to let her do anything alone right now. She had very few options as to what she could do to escape their watchful eyes. Obviously, she couldn't just leave by the front door. It's also not like she could disable any of them either. Mary was an ex-assassin, John was ex-military, and Sherlock was, well, Sherlock. Whatever happened would have to be to her.

"Pardon me," she said, making her way towards the bathroom.

She went into the bathroom, locking the door behind her. She didn't like what she was going to have to do, or at least not the reasons behind it. She wanted there to be another way, but there wasn't.

She took the gauze off of her arms to expose her cuts. Then, for the first time in her life, she reopened them without the intention of plain old self-mutilation. This time she did it so she could physically leave the flat. Wincing in pain, she reopened most of them, helping the blood to come out by squeezing the wounds. She quickly covered back up with the gauze and unlocked the door. She fell, purposely knocking some things off of the vanity counter on her way down. As expected, the others came rushing to her aid.

"Molly, what happened?" asked John, always the doctor.

"Dunno. Just got dizzy I guess."

"You're bleeding again. Did you do something to yourself again?" Mary asked.

"No, I swear," Molly said, not liking lying.

"I just need to lie down, that's all."

John helped her get back onto her feet and led her to the bedroom. He sat her down, and headed back to the bathroom to get more supplied for her wounds. As he bandaged her, he knew she was lying when she said she didn't do anything. There was no way in hell all of her cuts would open back up on their own with such suspicious timing. He wanted to help, but he couldn't help if she wouldn't let him.

"So, what really happened?" he asked.

"Do you trust me, John?" she countered.

He looked at her sideways answering with, "I'm not sure right now."

"No, not with this," she said gesturing to her arms, "with knowing what I'm doing? Do you trust me to make things right?"

"I want to. I really do, Molls. I do think everything can get better, though."

"Can you trust me to do that?"

He hesitated, but nonetheless told her that he did. And that was all she needed to allow herself to do what she was about to.

He finished fixing her and went to sit down in the chair opposite the bed.

"John, there's no need for that. Not if someone is awake. It's unsettling having someone watching me sleep and if anything happens at least one of you will hear."

John didn't like the idea of leaving Molly open to attack, but she was right. At least one of them was going to be awake because Sherlock never slept. He hesitantly left the bedroom despite the bad feeling he had. Closing the door behind him, he headed back to the living room to sit with the others.

"She's lying; you know that right?" John asked.

"Of course she's lying. Wouldn't you?" Sherlock asked him. "If you had something so destructive that you do, would you not try to hide it?"

"Sherlock, I'm not sure –" John started.

"John!" Mary intervened, "did you think that maybe, just maybe, he actually knows what he's talking about for once. It's precisely that which makes him uniquely qualified to understand her lying. In fact, you're the only one who doesn't. So, maybe you're not the best fit to help her in that way."

John forfeited the argument, knowing full well she was right. The three of them sat down and began to discuss what they were to do about the situation at hand. What to do about Moriarity.

Molly, her ear to the door, heard them begin their conversation and was sure it was not going to be a quick discussion. She hurried over to the window and opened it quietly with caution. She stepped onto the fire escape and closed the window behind her. Now all that was left to do was to find the bastard, and she had a pretty good idea of where he was. And with that in mind, she began her search for Moriarity.


End file.
